


Control

by CastielsLieutenant



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, CFO!Chris Evans, Dom Chris, Dom!Chris Evans, F/M, chris evans - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsLieutenant/pseuds/CastielsLieutenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No-one fucks with Mr. Evans.</p>
<p>No-one would ever, ever dare. As young as he is, he's also the CFO for one of the largest internet providers in the country. He's earned it, too; whip-smart with a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan, but only with people who are more than equipped to fight back. He expects perfection and won't settle for anything less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As found on my tumblr, thissideofdangerous. Inspired by the great notsomolly.
> 
> Enjoy.

No-one fucks with Mr. Evans.

No-one would ever, ever dare. As young as he is, he’s also the CFO for one of the largest internet providers in the country. He’s earned it, too; whip-smart with a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan, but only with people who are more than equipped to fight back. He expects perfection and won’t settle for anything less.

You’ve seen people fired for the less bit.

He carries with him an indefinable aura of power that is well-leashed, well-controlled. He never raises his voice because he never needs to. That low, rumbling Boston accent is all he needs to bring even the most stubborn board executive into line. You’ve sat in on board meetings occasionally, watching people rant and rave at him as he steeples his fingers and blinks those ridiculously long lashes lazily. When they’re all shouted out, he stands to his full height, buttoning his suit jacket as he goes. Arching an impeccably groomed eyebrow disdainfully, he will tuck his hands behind his back and circle the table like a shark, his long legs moving in purposeful strides as he talks them down rationally. When he leaves the room, people take a deep breath, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from their chest.

It’s not a good idea to fuck with Mr. Evans.

Not a good idea at all. Anyone who even considers screwing him over is promptly shown the door by someone else under his control, because that’s what he has. Control. It’s palpable wherever he goes. In his straight-backed posture, in his sharp suits with not a thread out of place, from the top of his expertly-cut hair which is almost long enough to tug on – but not long enough to grab hold of – down to the toes of his perfectly polished leather shoes. He exerts control over every aspect of his life.

For instance, he has perfect control over the rostering of his personal assistants. That’s right, he has more than one. It’s a good thing, too – the level of work required to keep up with the man is insane. There’s breakfast and couriers and meeting notes, before lunch and deliveries and meeting schedules followed by dry cleaning, dog grooming once a week, phone calls, text messages, telegrams for fuck’s sake. Who even  _gets_ telegrams any more?

Apparently, Mr. Evans does.

His perfect control has reorganised the roster, based on what he needs and what he needs at the moment is a PA with a typing speed of 110wpm. And he’s going to need her, because there’s no way you’re going down without a fight. He’s a corporate monstrosity, capable of flexing a little financial muscle and tearing lives apart.

Why he has to be insanely sexy while he’s at it is fucking ridiculous.

The secretary is the first thing you notice as you enter the shiny, sterile boardroom. You’ve seen the room before, of course – ceiling to floor windows that look out over the city, the low-pile carpet that still smells new, the long, solid hardwood meeting table set with elegant, long-necked stainless steel pitchers of ice water. The whole room is artfully designed to be subtly intimidating, just like him.

It’s hard not to notice him, though, sitting at the far end of the table in a light charcoal grey suit and matching tie over a white shirt, tapping out an even rhythm with the sleek fountain pen in his right hand against the smooth black leather of the folio beside him. His long, luscious eyelashes shield those intense blue eyes from view as he scrutinises the report in front of him, speaking in a low, almost in audible voice.

The tapping ceases and you watch as Mr. Evans’ mouth quirks ever-so-slightly. He murmurs to the secretary and she stops typing, clicks something on the screen once using the track pad, closes the notebook before standing, tucking it under one arm and walks primly from the room. She passes you without a second glance and closes the door tightly behind her. Only then does he lift his head to glance up and almost pin you to the wall with his look.

No-one fucks with Mr. Evans. If anything, Mr. Evans fucks with you.

With your mind, at the very least. His face is schooled in a stern yet ever-so-slightly bored expression, but his eyes hold the look of someone who has seen something that could possibly break the tedious mediocrity of the day. His full mouth rests in a semi-pout, emphasising the lush quality of his lips. You have the overwhelming feeling that if you got close enough, he would smell good enough to eat… or at the very least,  _suck_.

Oh no. That’s not a good thought to be having in the boardroom.

He rises fluidly from the ergonomic, high-backed chair he was seated in, smoothing his tie against his broad chest. You notice that even his pocket handkerchief is perfectly lined up against the edge of his breast pocket. His tie pin shines in the warm light from the globes in the ceiling. He’s too rich for that to be silver, you find yourself thinking. It has to be platinum.

“Thank you for coming.”

They are the first words he’s ever spoken to you, really. At the board meetings you have infrequently attended, you normally get your lawyers to yell at him or at  _his_ lawyers. Then his lawyers yell at you or your lawyers, who constantly tell you not to answer their inane questions. You’re perfectly fine with this – legal matters aren’t your speciality. Running a national telecommunications network is.

So when you hear those four words, dripping in Bostonian honey, you find yourself inhaling sharply. Nodding curtly, you step over to the table, preparing to seat yourself at the far end. Mr. Evans shakes his head. “Come, sit up here with me.” When you hesitate, he turns on the megawatt smile; the bright, white, panty-dropping soul melter that has made him the darling of the social pages on more occasions than you care to mention and gestures with a hand to the chair beside him. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not quite as sinister as my reputation implies.” You hesitate for a moment longer and his smile fades. “That was not a request,” he murmurs.

_Well, shit._

Your legs propel you forward by themselves as you keep your eyes trained on his, matching his level stare and holding on to the tattered shreds of your dignity desperately. You arrive at his side, fighting to keep your breathing level. A ghost of his previous smile returns as he looks down at you. “Now, isn’t that better?”

You sink into the chair, grateful for the support, still not trusting yourself to speak without panting. You were, incidentally, correct – the man smells  _indecently_  good. Either his cologne is so expensive and exclusive that you have never had the opportunity to experience the divine scent or he makes average cologne smell  _so_  good. _Wait, hold on a moment…_  you think, fighting to keep on track as he follows suit and sits back down. This is the man trying to buy you out, the man who is trying to rip your company out from underneath you.  _Focus._

“I thought it might be worth meeting outside of the extraordinary dramatics of our recent meetings,” he continues, extending a hand to you. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Christopher Evans, Chris to my friends.” You take the hand offered and shake it, replying with your name in kind. He nods. “You have an excellent handshake.” He gently turns your hand over, exposing your palm to the light and studies it closely. “Hands can tell you a lot about a person, if you know what to look for.”

“Such as?” The words are sticking in your dry throat. This was a terrible idea. He’s playing you like a fine violin and you’re probably minutes away from singing his concerto. Where are lawyers to hide behind when you need them?

“See,  _your_  hands are interesting. Soft, but not too soft. Bitten nails under a fresh set of gel-tips. The curvature of the fingers in a resting position of someone who spends a lot of time at a keyboard.” He looks up and allows a lazy grin to settle. “Or curls them into a fist, for one reason or another.”

“What did you want to talk about, Mr. Evans?”

He releases your hand and folds his own in his lap as he gives you an appraising look. “I want your company.”

A flicker of sarcasm flares up and spits out of your mouth. “You have it. I’m here.”

Mr. Evans tuts disapprovingly. “Smart remarks will get you nowhere. You know _exactly_  what I want.”

Someone must’ve turned the heating up, because your body temperature seems to have jumped a few degrees, but you press on regardless. “You want to take the company I spent  _years_  building and turn it into your own private tech support centre.”

The charming Mr. Evans disappears for a moment and is replaced by the boardroom shark you’ve often seen. “If you’re going to bore me with semantics,  _fine_ , yes, I want your staff and I want your resources. Your company is the third largest player in the telecommunications field. If I owned that, I could dominate not only the metropolitan grid, but the rural as well. Farmers and other rural workers need reliable connectivity to run their businesses successfully. If you add what you have to what I have, we can provide a superior service for them.”

“At the expense of my company being torn apart.”

Mr. Evans tilts his head at you curiously. “I fail to see how you can go on  _without_  my support. I’ve seen your financial projections. Without adequate facilities, all your efforts will be for nothing. When that happens, I will swoop in, take control overnight and by morning, no-one will even remember your company existed.”

The thought of the livelihoods of all your staff beats against your conscience like the tide against rock. Paling significantly, you lean forward quickly, forcing yourself not to grab his hand, something he clearly registers as you plead with him. “Come on, now! There are people who  _rely_  on a pay-check working for me! Show some mercy, _please_!”

The boardroom shark disappears and something altogether new takes its place – something more hungry, something more dark. He settles back in the chair, lowering his arms to the rests. For a moment, he is silent as you feel the anger fizzle from you. He lifts his chin slightly. “You do beg so prettily, did you know that?”

“Pardon?”

“What were the words you used? ‘Show some mercy, please.’. That was it. So delicate.” He leaves the chair empty and you wondering as he moves to the window. It’s late afternoon and the sun has already dipped below the horizon, leaving residual light to set the sky aglow as the stars awaken. As he stands there, he is both illuminated and cast into shadow and you find yourself wondering if this man is even real. “I can tell already how this will play out. In the end, you will  _beg_  me to take over. You will give to me of your own free will and you’ll  _enjoy_ it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that?” Emboldened by his affected arrogance, you stand and place your hands on your hips. “You’re not the first corporate jockey I’ve faced and I’m fairly certain you won’t be the last.”

He turns and strides back from the window and arrives abruptly in your personal space, his face mere inches from yours, though his body isn’t touching you. “Because,” he breathes softly, eyes half-lidded and eyelashes brushing against the delicate skin below them as his gaze devours you, “you’ve hardly been capable of looking me in the eye since we first sat together here. Because you can’t keep your eyes off my mouth. Because when I called, you came. Because you  _begged_.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Don’t move_.

You’re trying not to tremble, trying every trick in the book to  _not move_. One slip and you’ll connect with him and then…  _oh god oh god oh god…_

Every sense is on hyper-alert, every sound of his even breathing matching against every second gasp you make, the light disappearing between the two of you, the smell of him so close that it wraps around you like a blanket and blocks out everything else, the idea that only a few millimeters are between your lips and his and if he moves, if he only parts his lips just slightly…

“Good girl.” He steps back and time rushes in, destroying the moment. You almost topple forward off your feet, but manage to catch yourself in time to prevent something ridiculous happening. He lifts his chin – smug half-grin in place – and tucks his hands behind his back. “I think we’ve covered exactly what we needed to tonight.”

_What!?_

“I-I don’t…”

“This wasn’t really a business meeting. This was about me meeting you for the first time – the  _real_  you – and now I have.” He reaches over and picks up the folio he had been tapping on earlier and tucks it up under his arm, before arching an eyebrow at you. “Unless there is something more you’d like to say?”

_How about bend me over the table this second and fuck me senseless, you insensitive prick._

“No, I… I think we’re done here.”

“Good. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other very soon.” He extends his hand for a handshake and you take it, trying to stop your heart racing as your skin connects with his, the electricity between you palpable. If this is the kind of effect he’s going to have on you, all future business meetings had better be held with at least two security guards to hold you back before you do something insane like climb over the table and tear his clothes off in front of twenty people. He raises your hand to his lips and, just for a moment, his lips graze your knuckles, turning you to liquid heat from the ground up. “It was a pleasure and once again, thank you for coming.”

* * *

This is nuts and he’s fucking with you.

It’s nearly two in the morning and your brain refuses to shut down, playing over your meeting over and over again. Mr. Evans and his stupid, plushy lips can go to hell – you’re no pushover, you refuse to be bullied and this is just a form of boardroom tactic designed to hit you at your weakest point.

_He’s just a damn CFO!_

Not even the boss of the damn company, not like you. He’s nothing like you. He waltzed into his position, all sparkling smile and sharp intelligence and sinful mouth…

_Oh god damn, that mouth._

It’s the stuff of dreams, really, that mouth. A woman could be happy for the rest of her life if her man only had that mouth  _and_  knew what to do with it. Certainly, your mind has helpfully supplied several scenarios in which he could make excellent use of that mouth. Your skin chipped in with the idea of beard burn on your inner thighs, something that  _really_  wasn’t necessary and is making it that much harder to sleep. You roll over on to your side, one-eyed staring at your phone charging on the night-stand.  _No, it’s two thirty. Absolutely not_. But the thought of the board-room and your own hand is what gets you off before you finally, mercifully, drop off to sleep, temporarily sated in body if not in mind.

* * *

_I’m a boss-ass bitch, bitch, bitch, I’m a boss-ass bitch_

With a groan, you rub your eyes, squinting at your phone. It’s five-thirty and a certain CFO is texting you? What in the hell could be so important that he couldn’t wait until a more godly hour of the day? A flailing hand grabs it from the night-stand and swipes the screen to find out where the fire is.

_Gym. Six-thirty. Be there._

Like hell. One, you don’t take orders from the likes of him, at least not without a please involved. Two, six-thirty is still obscenely early. Three, you’ve had approximately fuck-all sleep thanks to him so if he thinks you’re going to roll out of bed to be at his beck and call, then he’s got another thing coming.

Still, good excuse to watch him pump iron or beat on a helpless boxing bag, though.

You rest the alarm for six o’clock.

* * *

It’s six twenty-nine and you’re standing in the open weights floor of the gym, clutching the strongest coffee you could stomach after basically inhaling an apple danish. It’s mostly empty, save for a couple of early-bird types who seem to want to get their morning work-out done before the rush starts. You almost think he’s stood you up, before your eyes fall on a broad-shouldered form in the back corner, hefting what you could estimate as the weight of a eight year old child in each hand.  _It’s him_.

 _He’s doing this on purpose_.

It’s the first thought through your head and one you heartily endorse. No man should be allowed to look that good when working out. Muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and release under his sweat-soaked white muscle shirt with every lift of the heavy weight in each hand. The unforgiving neon lighting makes him look a little pale, but emphasises the smooth perfection of his skin. Tattoos normally covered by his absurdly chic business suits ripple subtly with the effort and that obscene mouth is slightly open as he takes little gasps of air.

The hand holding the coffee shakes a little as you grip your caffeine tighter in an effort not to spontaneously combust. He drops the weights to the ground with a dull thud, reaches for a small towel to wipe his face and takes a look at the sleek, black phone beside him. You hold your breath as he frowns lightly, then turns his head to spot you standing there.

_Oh good god._

The frown disappears and he straightens, taking long strides to cross the room and stops a few paces away, folding his arms across his chest. The shirt isn’t doing anything to hide the glorious spread of those pectoral muscles and the hint of hair disappearing under the wet material. “You came,” he says with a smile.

Scrambling to reorganise your thoughts, you hold up the coffee as an explanation, before elucidating. “Nicotine and coffee, the CEO’s best friends.”

He arches an eyebrow at you. “You smoke?”

“Only when I don’t get enough sleep.”

“Indeed.”

“What did you need me here for so early? I assume your servers are on fire somewhere and burning merrily to a crisp, because that’s the only reason I can think of to get someone out of bed three hours after they’ve fallen asleep.”

“I always work out early in the morning. It sets me up for a good day, helps me sleep at night and gives me an endorphine high.” He licks his lips –  _that rat bastard knows you’re staring!_  - and casts a glance around the room. Since you’ve been talking, the remainder of the early-birds have left to hit the showers. He moves closer and you can see every droplet of sweat still clinging to his skin, can smell it – a clean, soapy smell edged with salt. “Why were you awake so late last night, hmm?”

 _Nope, don’t answer him. Don’t even think about it. He’s playing you; you know it, he knows it, this isn’t going to go well_ … “I was thinking. Couldn’t shut my brain off.”

His eyes are half-hooded and he tilts his head slightly, eyes sliding from your face to the exposed skin at your neck as his voice drops lower and becomes more husky.“What were you thinking about?”

 _You and that mouth._  “The business. How you’re wrong about my company and how I can prove you wrong. You think just because you control the purse-strings of one company, you can handle them all? How can you  _possibly_  understand the needs of the smaller business; the kind of love and personal care that goes with each transaction, the kind of dedicated support to help someone’s gran set up their internet connection and webcam so they can see their grandchildren on the other side of the world?” Your normal sense of purpose and strong stubborn streak has reasserted itself and overcome the latent horniness you’ve been experiencing in Mr. Evans’ presence. He will not take this away from you, even if he has to…

The finger against your lips stops your tirade and you physically feel it die for a moment. This isn’t the board-room and you’re not fighting for your company right now. Right now, you’re outside of work, outside of everything and this gorgeous man has a finger pressed lightly on your half-open mouth and is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. Well, two can play at that game. In an extraordinary feat of daring, the tip of your tongue flicks out against him and almost immediately floods your taste buds with the flavour of salt and a tinge of metal. Your hyperactive hearing picks up the sound of his short, sharp inhalation of breath.  _Got him_.

It takes him a moment to form a sentence and when it does, it’s darker than ninety percent cocoa chocolate and infinitely hotter than it has any right to be. “ _Bad_  girl.”

_Oh-ho, yeah, sunshine. You have no idea._

Feeling more confident, you deliberately suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, lips clamping softly around it. Swirling your tongue around it briefly earns you a deliciously low moan from the back of his throat.  _Hah, now who’s in charge, huh? Who’s calling the shots now, big guy?_  Your free hand comes up to cup the one of his at your mouth, running barely-there caresses over the back of it. After a moment, he pulls his hand away, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. You allow yourself to echo his smug smirk and take a pull from your takeaway coffee as you watch emotions and thoughts chase themselves across his softly bearded face. Eventually, he speaks. “Wait here.”

He heads in the direction of the showers, leaving you wondering what your next move is. You hadn’t expected it to go this far, despite what your overheated imagination might’ve conjured. You walk to the lobby of the gym, dropping the now empty cup into the nearest bin and flop down into one of the cushy chairs set out for new arrivals. Another ten minutes filled with scrolling through the morning’s news feed and he comes out, still buttoning his slightly crumpled white shirt, hair still slightly damp and gym bag slung over his shoulder. You look up, brain realigning from absorbing the story on Sumatran militia to the handsome Mr. Evans. He nods at your phone. “What time do you have to be at work?”

“Nine.” Your lips twist in a wry smile. “Boss is a bit strict like that.”

He glances at his watch. “Plenty of time.”

“Time for what, exactly?”

“Breakfast. With me, if that wasn’t previously implied.”

Remembering the danish, you shake your head. “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.”

“A strong coffee and half a pack of Marlboro doesn’t count as breakfast. Besides, there’s something I want to talk to you about that doesn’t concern lawyers.” He grins at a private joke. “Well, not yet.”

“And you can’t tell me now, because…?”

He reaches out a hand to help you up. “Like I said. Breakfast.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s now seven in the morning and you’re pushing around a half-eaten poached egg on toast around in the remains of mushy avocado whilst Mr. Evans wolfs down his hearty after-gym breakfast with gusto. After the tense moment on the weights floor, you can hardly keep your mind on your food, as it keeps wandering back to thoughts of his finger against your lips. You idly wonder if his fingers feel just as good elsewhere on your body.

“I take it you’re not that hungry.”

His comment startles you from your reverie and you shake your head. “Not really. I had a danish before I met you at the gym.”

“Mmm.” He chews thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. “Well at least you have the sense to feed yourself. I meet too many women who think that breakfast is a sin and eating a good meal is a torture akin to water-boarding.”

“Are you telling me I’m fat?”

“I’m telling you I approve of healthy eating habits and even if you were fat, it wouldn’t detract in the least from your keen mind and intellect. Don’t insult yourself by putting your insecurities into my mouth. I think better of you that that.”

“I’m flattered.” You push the plate away from you, finished with the food. You watch him shovel down the rest of his bacon and take a hearty draught from his black coffee. “You wanted to talk to me about something.”

He nods and sets down the coffee, his face serious. “I did.” His hands rest on the table, fingers loosely linked. “I think, by now, you’ve established that you are attracted to me and in turn, there is something about you that I cannot set aside. You fascinate me in a way that I cannot define and you make it difficult for me to remain entirely business-like in our meetings. It has crossed my mind once or twice to have you on the boardroom table in front of those morons you call lawyers without a single flying fuck given as to what they might think.”

 _Jesus and Mary, mother of God._  “I-I understand.”

“Good.” He reaches for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Now, as you might have also considered, any kind of sexual relationship is probably unethical from both our points of view.”

 _No kidding._  “I wasn’t aware that we had one.”

“You misconstrue my meaning. I’m not talking about this as if we are in one, I’m talking about this as if we were to embark on one.”

Your stomach seems to have left the cafe and taken off down the road, your brain in hot pursuit, taking with it all possible forms of rational and higher thought. All you manage to stutter out is, “Really?”

“Your little stunt at the gym was a fairly good indication that such an offer would not be offensive to you.”

 _Damn right it wouldn’t._  “But what about our ethical position? You’re trying to buy me out. Wouldn’t that look a little suspicious?”

“I take my work seriously. I take my privacy even more seriously. However, I entertain some, shall we say, more  _interesting_  bedroom activities. If you’re interested, of course. Otherwise, we could stick to good old-fashioned American fucking, if that’s how you want to get it out of your system.”

You want to run. You want to sprint away, fast and screaming, but that edge of curiousness you flirt with constantly leaves you seated across the table from him. Without taking your eyes from him, you grab a cigarette from the pack on the table to your right, pop it in your mouth, light it and take a long drag. Exhaling the white smoke, you sit back in your chair. “I’m listening.”

That smirk of his, formerly dancing at the corner of his mouth, broadens into a wide smile as he realises that you’re not the backing-down type. “Good girl,” he purrs, shifting your abandoned plate atop his and aligning the used cutlery on it. “How do you feel about BDSM?”

“Can’t say I know too much about it.”

“That’s okay. It’s a very personal experience and very rewarding, provided you take it at your own pace and explore carefully. I’ve been involved with the lifestyle for a number of years – discreetly, you understand – and I’ve had many enlightening partners and scenarios. It can teach you much about yourself – what you are willing to take, what kind of personality you have, how you enjoy a partner. If you are interested in it, it is always good to have an experienced partner the first time. Communication is vital and limitations are essential. No-one should ever have to do something that they are not comfortable with.” His eyes turn gentle for a moment. “Would you trust me never to hurt you without explicit consent?”

“How do you mean?”

“Initially, some light spanking. Binding your wrists loosely. If you’re feeling particularly adventurous, maybe some orgasm denial.” His body language says he’s simply talking about the weather instead of tying you up. You’re rather grateful that there isn’t anyone in the immediate vicinity who can overhear the conversation you’re having at the moment. “Once you’re comfortable with this, we can move on to more interesting measures, step by step and completely at your own pace.”

“I’m guessing the whips and chains are way down the road then?”

“Whips and chains don’t even have to make an appearance. I have experience with suspension, but don’t particularly enjoy it myself. If something a little hardcore is something you are interested in later when you have more of an idea of what this all entails, we can have a discussion about it. Ultimately, you  _will_  follow my directions, but I will never give you directions that I think would cause you emotional, mental or physically long-lasting distress or that you yourself would be uncomfortable following.”

The nicotine is lighting up parts of your brain that you need to think clearly. “Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly – from what I understand, you’re a…  _dominant_? Is that the correct term?”

“Yes.”  _Very matter-of-fact, there, Sunshine_.

“And you’re interested in me becoming your submissive?”

“Temporarily to long-term. Some dom/sub relationships work out, some don’t. It’s why communication is so important.”

“You want me to make a decision like this over breakfast?”

“There is a selfish part of me that says yes, I do. I’m relying immensely on my strength of will to keep my hands off you every time I see you. I know you find me attractive and if nothing else, you must know that the feeling is mutual. But after I heard you beg last night, it occurred to me that we could make this… whatever it is between us far more interesting and beneficial to the both of us than just a business merger.” He leans across the table to take your free hand gently. “If you tell me that you were just teasing, that you were simply being friendly and that your actions at the gym were just a little game, I’ll stop, I really will. If you say you need time to think about it, I am willing to afford you whatever time you need to make an informed decision. But,” his thumb brushes the back of your hand, pausing briefly on your knuckles as his eyes plumb the depths of your laid-bare soul, “if I’m right and you can’t keep the thought of me all over you out of your head, if the fantasy of me in your bed keeps you awake at night, if the smell of someone else wearing my aftershave leaves you sweating and your knees weak, then we both know what your decision will be, don’t we?”

_Well,_ _ shit _ _._

“I-I might need some time. Just to think it over.” It’s a good plan, really, thinking it over. Being in his presence is a little hard to think straight and this isn’t a decision to be made lightly. He nods and lets go of your hand.

“A wise choice and I understand completely. I respect you as a business magnate and as a woman, so I won’t push this any further until you’ve come to terms with it.” He stands, hands straightening his shirt before holding one out to shake yours. “It’s been a pleasure, truly. You are a remarkable lady and you should be immensely proud of all your achievements.”

A part of you preens under his glowing commendation and you shake his hand firmly. “If I choose not to pursue this right now, don’t think it’s because I’m not attracted to you. I’m simply trying to be ethical.”

“Of course.”

“And… if I do, will you promise me something?”

“If it is within my power to do so.”

“Promise me that when you’re done with me, you’ll be kind.”

His eyes soften and there’s something there that you haven’t seen before. “I  _am_  kind. Very much so. Part of what I think will be so beneficial to our relationship is that we will see things in each other that we have never seen before. You and I, we wear masks in public. People see us as one thing and one thing only. With each other, we will discover that there is so much more than the bottom line; that we are living, breathing people with loves, hopes and desires just like everyone else. For instance, you probably know that I play golf.”

“I do – I’ve seen your photos from many a charity tournament.”

“Did you also know that I love video games?”

 _That’s a bit different_. You shake your head. “No, I didn’t. Are you much of a Call of Duty fan?”

“Mario Kart. My brother is lousy at Rainbow Road.”

You snort in a very unladylike fashion. “I might have to challenge you on that one day.”

His smile reaches his eyes. “I look forward to it. Perhaps we can get those stuffed shirts arguing in our place in on a trans-company competition.”

“I’m not sure they’d know which way up the controller went.”

He laughs, slapping his free hand against his chest. “I think you might be right.” He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it chastely. “You have my number if you have any questions.”

“I do.”

“Use it when you need to.” He lets go of your hand and grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Well, then. Until next we meet.”

You watch him go before sitting slowly back down, turning over the thoughts in your head carefully. Clearly, getting involved with him is not a good idea, primarily from a business perspective. You have a company to run and hopefully that won’t include selling out to his punk ass.

On the other hand, that punk ass is offering up a really,  _really_  good deal; not only in the board-room, but also in the bedroom. It’s not like you don’t  _date_ , per se, but… alright, so dating while you’re a CEO is a bit difficult. Guys tend to find your position of power either threatening or something to mooch off. But Chr – sorry,  _Mr. Evans_  is something entirely different. He holds a position not too much lower than yourself and he hardly needs your money to support himself. You sigh and rub your hand over your face.

There’s a decision to be made and the outcome… well, the outcome is going to change your life.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days pass quite quickly and you find yourself spending less and less time mulling over the idea of having adventurous sex and more and more time considering telling your board members that they can all go fuck themselves. You don’t get to see him – save for a brief moment when you passed him in the lobby of your solicitors’ office. He was on his phone, mouth set in a grim line, nodding sharply to whatever he was being told and swept past in a cache of chattering people dressed in suits, through the glass doors and out into the wind-swept street to climb into a waiting car. A part of you felt sad that he didn’t even realise you were there and it made you feel a little lonely.

Whatever you were _– are –_ to each other, it has no place in your business. Your financial team had finally struck gold with a five-year plan that was all but certain to drag your numbers up. A major farmers union had contacted your company to partner them in bringing a reliable network to some of the most rural and isolated stations across the country; something that would not only be fantastic for the community and allow you to establish grass-roots programs to help children in country schools, but also to bring agriculture to the city without having to leave the property. It is a win-win situation and you’re very excited about it.

It has, however, taken it’s toll on you. All you have done is eat, sleep and work – not a conducive atmosphere for anyone’s mental health – and it’s starting to tire you out. The door to your office feels like it should be a revolving one with so many people scrambling in and out all day long. You find yourself wistfully looking forward to the weekend when you can have two days to yourself without  _someone_  trying to call, text or email you. Once clock-off time hits, you’re switching your phone off and it’s not going back on until Monday morning.

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, so they say.

At four-thirty on Friday afternoon, just as you’re genuinely considering throwing something at your CFO’s head to stop him continuing on in his monotone, your phone buzzes on the table in front of you. The CFO pauses as you shoot him an apologetic look and pick it up, swiping the screen to see what fresh new hell needs answering to.

**If I said I miss you, would you agree to dinner tonight? - CE**

A smile tugs at one side of your mouth.  _So he hasn’t forgotten about us_. You quickly tap out a reply.

**If you said you missed me, I might say that I miss you, too. Apologies, work has been hellacious.**

You set the phone back down, this time remembering to switch the vibrate function off. Your CFO, seeming to have lost his steam, summarises the rest of his findings and asks your opinion. You make a few alterations – can’t let the man have it all his own way – but for the most part, you’re pleased with his work. He’s a slightly older, paunchy chap who reminds you of a university lecturer with sparse, greying hair, but is most amenable and thankfully doesn’t care about working for a woman. More than anything else, it was this that endeared him to you. So many of the candidates for his position had a tendency to talk down to you, as if you were some little miss that needed to be put in her place and take orders from them. Alan – his name even _sounded_  like it had tenure – had carefully recited your credentials back to you, looked at you with a critical gaze and nodded approvingly. He’s never let you down and you’re proud to work with him… even if he is a little tedious sometimes.

Alan takes his leave with his tablet computer and imparts a wish that you have a good weekend. You nod and smile weakly, thankful that with his closing of the door, you are finally done with your final business meeting of the day. You pick the phone back up and check your messages.

**Sounds like the boss is riding you hard.**

You snort at his choice of words and type out a response.

**I haven’t been ridden harder than I can handle in a very long time, sir.**

The phone lays quiet and dormant in your hand for a a full minute. You wonder if he’s taken your little bit of sass the wrong way. Placing the phone on the desk, you tidy up and save your work, making sure to back-up your files to an external hard-drive you keep locked in a safe. It was a habit you developed in university and one that has so far served you well. If the servers ever went up in smoke, at the very least you would have the hard data to get back to business within a week.

Just as you lock the hard-drive in the safe, your phone lights up. Incoming call. Groaning, you half-consider ignoring it. You are so close to being off the clock, it’s no longer even remotely funny. Knowing that, you stride over, pick it up, swipe the screen and press it to your ear. “Hello?”

“You never said yes.”

Just like that, the tension melts from your spine and your face cracks into a big smile. _It’s him_. “I didn’t say no, though.”

“If you’re still thinking about what we talked over, then this falls under the heading of _good communication_. I like to be very clear about what is acceptable and what isn’t. My offer stands – if I say I missed you, would you agree to dinner?” There’s a pause, as if he’s thinking about what he’s just said. “Please.”

“Nice to see you’ve finally remembered your manners. I’m willing to bet your mother would kill you for slipping like that with a woman.”

“It’s a good bet.”

“I know.”

There’s another pause and you hear the sound of creaking leather that puts you in mind of him leaning in his chair. “I missed you. I  _miss_  you.”

“I miss you. I did see you, briefly, at the lawyers the other day.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Possibly because you were surrounded by a small hurricane.”

His laugh warms you from the inside. “Well  _that_  is definitely an astute observation. I seem to generate my own weather systems of crazy people.”

“No doubt about it.”

“So… dinner tonight?” His voice is hopeful and in your mind he’s giving a puppy-dog look at the wall, pouting slightly and batting his stupid, pretty eyelashes. “We can go somewhere out of the way.”

“I’m insanely tired. I need some recoup time.”

“Oh.” He sounds a little disappointed, but still resolute. “I understand. It’s been a hard week. I’ll try not to take up more of your time today. Perhaps another day.”

You think for a moment, considering your options. “But…”

“But?”

“You could always stop by my place. Grab some Chinese food, a six-pack of beer. We could hang out in my living room and watch Netflix for a while. You know, get to know each other.”

“I didn’t think that’s the kind of date CEOs went on.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Sir, this isn’t a date.” Your tone has gone a little more formal, a little teasing. “This is a test.”

* * *

Mr. Evans is a walking, talking set of contradictions.

For all his glamorous, sharp suits, the man who turns up at eight in your doorway is dressed down – black v-necked tee, distressed dark denim jeans and a pair of good, sturdy boots. When you open the door, he smiles shyly. “Hi.” Holding up a white plastic bag in one hand and a six-pack of Bud in the other, he peers past you into your apartment. “I cooked.” You raise an eyebrow but give him nothing but a soft smile as you usher him inside and shut the door behind the both of you.

Your apartment is modest – a two bedroom place on the third level with hard-wood flooring and an open plan space. You’ve had people scoff at it and tell you that you can do much better than this, but this is home. It’s big enough to let friends crash overnight but small enough so that you don’t feel lonely all the time, something that gets pretty easy to do. Your companion for the evening makes himself at home; dropping the food off on the kitchen counter before jumping over the back of your ever-so-comfy couch and popping the top off a beer. He hands it to you as you drop down next to him and pick up the remote.

It’s strange, at first. It’s been so long since you’ve had a man in your house who wasn’t there on business that initially you find yourself trying to keep a respectable amount of distance, but comfort eventually wins that race and you find yourself wedged between the back of the couch and his body, his left arm wrapped around your shoulders and holding you close. It’s nice just to be held for once and something in the way he holds his body tells you that it’s probably been a long time for him, too. Clearly, this is something you’ve both needed.

The show you’re watching comes to an end and you get up to fish out the Chinese food he brought with him, the beer now long since drunk. He watches you quietly from the couch as you search for a second set of chopsticks, before breaking the silence. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about over breakfast?”

You freeze, wondering what to say. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought much about it. You  _had_  planned on doing some research this weekend, but it was a pipe dream at the moment. “I haven’t had the time.”

“Do you have any immediate concerns?” He’s leaning on the back of the couch now, chin propped up by the heel of his hand. You sigh softly and run a hand through your hair.

“What do I call you? I can’t keep calling you Mr. Evans.”

“You can call me Chris when we’re together. I would like to think we’re friends, at least. Unless we’re in a scenario, then I would prefer to be referred to as Sir. Outside of that, if we’re at work, Mr. Evans is fine.”

“And what would you call me?”

“Do you find girl offensive?”

“It does feel a bit…  _demeaning_.”

He nods and even in the low light, you can see him take on-board your thoughts. “That’s understandable. Would you prefer something more in line with a relationship? Darling, perhaps?”

You think about this for a moment. “Darling will do for now. Until we find something better.”

“Agreed. Anything else?”

You stop for a moment, hardly daring to think about what you’re about to say. This is it. “Making a step towards that lifestyle with someone I’ve never slept with before – it’s a hard one.”

“Would you feel more comfortable if we had sex before we tried anything?”

“… yes. Yes, I would.”

Chris climbs up off the couch, circling around it and makes his way to your side in the kitchen. The glow of the television lights up his silhouette and allows you to see the outlines of his features, but none of the detail. He is careful not to intrude in your personal space, but the hint of his scent and the sound of his soft breathing crowds around you, demanding attention. When he speaks, his voice has dropped into that husky tone that sends shivers throughout your body.

“Would you like to have sex with me now?”

The answer gets stuck in your dry throat and it takes two swallows to finally,  _finally_ get it out in a breathy reply.

“Yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

A scant inch and his lips are on yours and they are just as plush, just as soft as you have imagined them to be. They are not dominating or controlling – not yet, anyway – but are pliant in a chaste, lingering kiss that shakes you to your soul. He pulls back slightly and you find yourself chasing their touch, their caress and the barest hint of a smile graces them as he hums approvingly. “Definitely not disappointing,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering lightly.

He moves back in, taking his time in kissing you but never touches you beyond that. It’s only when you make the move to deepen the kiss and swiftly flicker out your tongue to graze that plump lower lip that he brings his hands to your waist and pulls you close, a possessive move that causes the instinctive reaction of wrapping your arms around his neck. He’s tall, so it’s not entirely comfortable, so you settle for pushing one hand into his hair to hold his head steady and leaving the other on one of his delightfully broad shoulders. Your bodies connect and now,  _now_  you can feel the sheer muscle that seems to be a mainstay feature of him from neck to toe. The hand on his shoulder seems to have a mind of its own and travels down the front of his shirt, bunching and releasing the material in gentle grabs until it hits his belt. You hook a finger inside it, enjoying the heat from the small amount of contact you’re making with his skin as you tug on his hair lightly.

Chris breaks the kiss with a groan and rolls his head back, closing his eyes as you let go of his hair. “Shit,” he curses, fingers flexing on your hips as he brings himself under better control. “I didn’t think you’d be this good.”

You frown slightly. “We’ve barely started.”

He tips his head forward a little and half-opens one eye. “That’s the whole fuckin’ point.”

“Oh.”

He gently takes the hand currently investigating his top of his jeans and brings it down to the front, pressing lightly against the zipper and hissing softly as your fingers gently map out the hardness pushing back. Your eyes widen a little as your brain processes his size.  _Sir_  is definitely packing heat down there. He groans softly, biting a little at his lower lip. “God, stop fuckin’ teasing me. I’m about to die here.”

“Whiny little bitch,” you giggle, retrieving your other hand from his hair and making swift work of undoing his belt and popping open the button above his fly. You sink to your knees to better yank down his jeans over his hips and come face-to-face with his erection, straining against his white y-fronts. Taking this golden opportunity, you mouth him through the fabric with care, rubbing your nose against the shaft with a little pressure that makes him suck in a short breath through his teeth and bury his hands in your hair.

Smiling, you tug down the remaining article of clothing to reveal him to you and C _hrist_ , he’s gorgeous. A happy trail of hair that leads down the centre of that stupidly sexy Adonis belt to the crown of hair from which his cock stands proudly at a decent length and an admirable width. You look up at his face, still half-shrouded in darkness and cock a cheeky eyebrow at him with a chuckle. “Well,  _Sir_ , as you said – definitely _not_  disappointing.”

“Are you going to suck me or just sit there making wisecracks at my expense?”

“I’d say I can do both, but it’s a bit difficult if you’re going to stuff all this down my throat.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groans, taking a hand out of your hair and grasping himself to angle towards your mouth. The head brushes your lips and it’s smooth, soft and warm – an invitation to a much better activity. You open for him and he slips in without ceremony, the taste of the salt on his skin spreading across your tongue a welcome response as you wrap your lips around him. Deep-throating is an art and one that you’ve been working hard (excuse the pun) to master, but then as cocks go, you can never be sure how deep you need to go. The current occupant of your mouth is definitely larger in girth than you’ve taken before, so it’s an effort not to gag a little as he hits the back and the tip slips down. Taking a long breath through your nose, you hollow out your cheeks and swallow, moving slowly to get the feel of him.

To his credit, Chris doesn’t try to fuck your mouth straight away – a sure-fire sign of a gentleman with insane levels of self-control. His hands move through your hair and push it out of your face as you mentally run through your playlist of oral tricks. A good blow-job will make a man pliant. A great one will bring him to his knees. You cup his balls and toy with them gently as you suck back up the shaft, making sure to keep the pressure on the underside firm. Fingers flex in your hair as you reach the head, flickering the tip of your tongue against the frenulum. Not too much, but just the right amount of attention to this point as your free hand moves to his thigh and lightly scratches your nails against it elicits the most delicious, low moan from somewhere deep in his chest.

You keep up the slow, torturous suck-and-lap method, bringing the hand back from his thigh to join in on the action with your mouth. Mixing it up a little, you pump his shaft with your hand as you suckle the head, dragging the back of your front teeth over it and lapping at the slit, before swirling your tongue over it like an ice-cream. When he starts to thrust lightly into your mouth, you go back to your long, deep sucks. He smells like a mixture of soap and the barest hint of musky sweat, something you find extremely sexy.

After a little while, his thighs start to tense up and he pulls you off his cock with a quiet, wet pop. You look up at him and see the most gorgeous sight – hair tousled, eyes half-hooded in the darkness, full mouth partially open and damp from where he’s been biting that delectable lower lip and chest heaving slowly. You give him your most innocent half grin and nibble at your lower lip. “Something wrong?”

“Bed or couch?” The question is raspy, as if he can’t get enough air to speak properly. You look over your shoulder and eye up the sofa in question. A wicked thought occurs to you and you just  _can’t_ help yourself.

“Over the back of the couch?”

That’s all it takes for him to haul you to your feet and then it’s a mess of hands and arms as you strip each other naked in as little time as possible. Shirts go flying. Your jeans hit the floor with your underwear and you have to give him kudos for not tearing your bra from you. He lifts you onto the kitchen bench and the takeaway is shoved unceremoniously aside. Hands and mouths go back to exploring and you bite down on his shoulder from where you had curled around him to kiss his neck in order stifle a moan as his fingers discover how wet you are for him at the same time his mouth finds your breast, forcing a similar sound from him. Realising that must have hurt, you let go gently. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Mmnf, don leaf mars. ‘S no goo mammers.” His mouth is latched onto your nipple and you lean forward to kiss the top of his head with a sigh as you feel his tongue curl around and tug gently.

“So sorry.”

“O ur ot.”

“Okay, so I’m no-o-ot,  _shit_ ,” you curse as his fingers crook up inside of you and stroke your walls like a master, head falling back. “Jesus  _fucking_  Christ, Chris, that’s amazing…”

He lets go for a moment at your chest and gives you a smile of pure sin. “You doubted me?”

“Not for a second.”

“Well  _that_  I’m glad to hear.”

You redirect his attention to the other breast. “Less talking, more sucking.”

“Yes ma’am,” he complies and turns his attention back to the task at hand. With his left hand anchoring your hip to the counter, the right hand has his middle and ring fingers knuckle-deep inside you, slowly thrusting in and out at a leisurely pace. His thumb finds your clit and on first contact you almost shoot straight up off the counter in pleasure. Your hands – previously occupied with holding yourself up at a forty-five degree angle – bury themselves in his hair and grip hard as he toys with it, rubs it in circles and on either side. This is going to be an earth-shattering orgasm and you know it. But just before you hit that magic mark, he retrieves his hand and mouth, paying no heed to your cry of frustration and turns away, digging through the pockets of his discarded jeans for a condom as you hop off the counter and press against his back, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist.  _Dear and fluffy lord, this man has a_ _great_ _ass._

He straightens, running a hand over your linked ones on his stomach and turns in your embrace to sweetly stroke your face. There’s a gentleness to him that doesn’t match the frenzy of before. “Are you sure you’re still okay with this?” The question lingers and you know, you absolutely  _know_ , that if you say no he’ll go into the bathroom, set himself right and just go back to watching TV with the Chinese food he brought with him. In that moment, you decide that you can trust him,  _do_  trust him to never hurt you and it makes the world of difference.

“Yes, I’m still sure. Absolutely. I trust you.”

“Good.” He leans down to kiss the tip of your nose, then breaks them embrace and turns you around, bending you over the back of couch. Your hands hit the cushions as your feel his smoothing over your exposed ass, now prominently on display. “I love your ass. Did I ever tell you I have this thing about great asses?”

“It never really came up during the board meetings,” you quip and you feel him give you a light tap on one cheek. It’s not a slap – not even close to the pressure required to type a letter – but you can tell it was meant as an admonishment.

“That smart mouth is going to get you into trouble someday, darling.”

The use of the mutually agreed upon nickname causes a shiver to run through you and you press your thighs together against the heat pooling there. The presence of his hands disappears and you hear the quiet tearing of the foil packet. You drop your head forward, bracing against the seat as you feel him return, the familiar sensation of his hand on your ass and the new one of the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. After a few long, slow strokes that drive you a little mad with need as he passes over your aching clit, he finally enters you.

And God in heaven, this man can  _fuck_.

Most men at this point would drive home hard and fast, causing discomfort. Some would tease, thrusting shallowly and causing even  _more_  frustration. But not your Mr. Evans. Oh no. No, Mr. Evans –  _Chris_  – favours the controlled slide; a long, slow thrust in that allows you to stretch without too much burn. When he’s balls-deep, he curls around you and rests his chin on your shoulder while his arms wrap themselves around your waist, keeping himself still inside you. “Okay?”

There’s no words for this. There’s cursing and prayers and all manner of begging, but it all feels redundant. You are full of him, surrounded by him. Your senses are on overload – his searing touch, his salty taste, his musky smell, his guttural sounds and finally just the sheer sight of him – and all you can manage is a small nod. He kisses your shoulder and rolls his hips, pumping in and out slowly as one of those talented hands slides between your thighs to stimulate you as the other rises to your breast in order to caress it and press you back against him.

The world drops away and all that remains is the sound of skin against skin, flesh hitting flesh. You were already close when he had you on the counter and now you’re about to hit the breaking point barely minutes after he entered you. He seems to sense the tension thrumming through you and eases off on your clit, bringing the hand up and coaxing your mouth open for you to suck on. As your tongue traces his fingers, he groans into your shoulder. “ _Fuck_  me, you’re incredible. Warm and wet, just for me. So responsive to the way I touch you, to the way I kiss you.” To illustrate this point, he presses those perfect lips to the pulse point behind your ear and you moan around his fingers. He grins into your skin.

“See what I mean? So good at taking direction, too. You’re very good with non-verbal clues. I think I could make you very happy.”

 _No shit, Sherlock, what the fuck did you think_  _was happening here!?_

He takes his fingers from your mouth and strokes their spit-slickness over your nipple, causing you to buck forward against the couch as he chuckles. “Duly noted – you have extremely sensitive breasts. I’m going to enjoy that at a later time.” His arm curls around your abdomen, pulling you tightly against him as the other hand goes back to your clit. “But I think it’s high-time we got to the good part, don’t you think?”

You squirm against his touch and move your ass in a slow, easy circle over him. “About fuckin’ time, too.”

His hips pick up the pace and you can barely get your breath as he pounds against you, gasping into your shoulder. “How… about… this… is… this… better?”

You groan and arch your back, bringing one hand over your shoulder to hold his head in place as he buries his face into your neck. “So close,  _god_ , so close, Chris…”

A few thrusts later and you’re there, spasming around him and panting his name as both a curse and a prayer. You feel his back arch and his stomach lift off you as he comes, deep and hard, driving himself inside you as if the weakness to follow could be driven out through his cock. He stills after a moment, still breathing heavily with his face against your skin, puffs of air skittering across your sweat-beaded shoulder. Neither of you move, savouring the aftershocks of what was an incredible fuck.

You move first; slowly and gingerly, as you straighten from the uncomfortable ninety degree angle he’s had you in. His arms slide around your waist as his softening cock slips from you and he holds you close, turning his head to rest it where his face had been pressed. You hold his arms against you, unwilling to let him go so soon as you tilt your head back to rest against his chest. “That was…  _shit_ , I can’t even describe what just happened.”

“Mmm.”  _Ah, he’s in post-coital bliss. Nice to know he has a softer side_.

“Chris?”

“Mmm?”

“You can stay tonight if you want to, but if you want to go home, that’s okay as well. I won’t hold it against you.”

He turns his head and kisses your neck softly. “You’re a good woman.”

“Hopefully not  _too_  good.”

“Well, relatively speaking.” He lets you go and steps back, turning you to face him. He’s a sight – sweat dripping from his chest and glistening in the light. He runs a hand through his messed-up hair and looks at the abandoned food. “We could reheat it and take a shower, or I can take it home with me, I guess. It’s up to you.”

You smile at him, your previous worries about his reputation now allayed. “Reheat and shower it is.”


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the night passes without incident – you take a shower while he reheats the Chinese and you set up the food on the coffee table while he gets cleaned up. You allow yourself an appreciative ogle when he emerges from the bathroom; dark hair mussed and still slightly damp, shirt clinging to him in places. He grins and wiggles his eyebrows back at you. “Like what you see?”

“From day one, my friend. From day one.” You pat the spot on the couch next to you. “C’mon, this is supposed to be a date.”

“I thought sex usually comes at the end of the date?”

“We’re board executives. People play by our rules, not the other way around.”

“Touché,” he concedes, jumping over the back of the couch and landing with a thump next to you. You roll your eyes as he gives you a shit-eating grin. “You know you love me.”

“No, I’m in lust with you. Two very different things.”

“How so?” He picks up a container of Schezuan chicken and a pair of chopsticks, before proceeding to dig around for a decent piece. You chew slowly on a spring roll, mulling this idea over before swallowing.

“You can look at someone you see everyday and think, man, I would have them up against the wall in a heartbeat if they gave me half a chance. You appreciate them physically and what they think and their personality doesn’t even come into it. That’s being in lust with someone.”

“And being in love?” His eyes are big and innocent as he eats enthusiastically.  _Sir must’ve worked up an appetite_. “What’s being in love like?”

You elaborate for him. “Being in love is still wanting to fuck them up against a wall, but wanting to be there afterwards. Beforehand. It’s kicking their ass at Mario Kart but still making sure they’re eating and sleeping well. It’s sitting through a shitty movie because they went with you to that arty-farty play last week. Supporting each other. It’s like two cards that lean against each other, forming a pyramid. Take one away, the other falls down. You can stand it back up, but it’s not the same.” You realise you’re rambling at this point and bark a short laugh, looking away. You’re aware he’s still looking at you, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. You shake your head. “At least, that’s what I  _want_  love to be like.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question is quiet, curious, not meant to cause alarm or an adverse reaction. You give him a sideways look. “Have you?”

“Not the point. I asked you first.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m  _trying_  to get to know you. It would be nice if you would let me.”

You huff out a breath, silently wishing you had another beer. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been in relationships where I  _thought_  I was, but looking back on it and comparing it to what I  _want_  love to feel like, I guess it was halfway between lust and love.”

Chris nods and swallows his chicken. “What do you think went wrong?”

“Most guys can’t handle a partner who has a higher position in their company than they do. Makes them feel weak, not useful enough. In the end, I got tired of their passive-aggressive control issues.” You laugh bitterly at the thought. “I stopped dating regularly because it just wasn’t worth it. Better to be thought of as a lesbian than a ball-buster. At least lesbians get shit done.”

“So what makes me different?”

“I dunno…  _are_  you different?” The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. His face falls from playful curiosity to disappointment. You sit up straight and turn to him. “No, sorry, that was shitty of me. I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean that. _Christ_ , I’m sorry, stop looking at me like that…”

Chris’ finger presses against your mouth to stop the overflow of apologies and the words die on your tongue. He purses his lips as his eyes roam over your face, taking the measure of you. There’s a short exhale from him, then he leans forward to kiss you gently – just once – on the lips, removing his finger beforehand. He pulls back a little and cocks his head. “I hope I am. I’m not intimidated by you. I’m actually  _inspired_  by you. You’ve fought so hard and so long for everything you have and maybe that’s why I want this lifestyle with you. Because, in some small way, I’d be taking care of you. It’s something I want, maybe even something I need.” He smiles softly and flutters his eyelashes against your cheek. “You could be beautiful, or you could be ugly. Doesn’t matter what you look like. Never did. But I respect you in a way that I rarely do in anyone and, with your permission, I’d like to keep seeing you.” He presses another soft kiss to your cheekbone. “But, preferably, if you weren’t a lesbian.”

You grin and wrap your arms around his neck, returning his kiss. “We’ll see.”

* * *

Chris doesn’t stay the night, but it is one in the morning when he finally leaves your apartment, with a promise to see you as soon as he can. He has to be in the office that morning for a couple of hours and he needs the sleep. It doesn’t take you long to drop off yourself, eyes falling shut with a huge grin on your face. He’s interesting; powerful and charming, gentle and kind. The night’s activities were outrageously good fun and if this was all it was going to be, that’s fine with you.

Something nagged at you, though. When he’d asked if you’d ever been in love, he’d flat-out refused to answer the same question. While he claimed he wanted to get to know you and kept harping on that communication is vital, he seemed extremely reluctant to divulge any more personal information that was absolutely necessary. Apart from the fact that you know he has a brother who is terrible at Mario Kart, you barely know anything about him.

A conversation for a later time, perhaps.

Saturday starts around midday when you wake up and pull the pillow over your head. The ache between your thighs reminds you in the most delicious way of your escapades the night before and you have a big, stupid grin on your face. Normally, you would just spend the day in bed, reliving the best bits and replaying them in your head, but today you’re a woman on a mission. You drag yourself to the bathroom to get cleaned up before heading to the kitchen to make yourself a strong cup of coffee. While the kettle boils, you plop yourself down in front of your laptop that is sitting on the dining table and boot it up, ready for some research.

The kettle squeals as you plug in your search:  _the basics of BDSM_. When you get back with your coffee and some peanut butter toast, Google has kicked up half a million hits.  _Shit_. You scan through the first page, picking a couple of likely-looking websites to get an idea of what you’re getting yourself into. You chew thoughtfully on your toast as you read about being a submissive. The first thing that strikes you is that it’s a _whole_  lot different than you thought it was.

You’re big enough to admit you read  _50 Shades_  along with every other woman and the glaringly obvious control issues that occurred between the lead characters made you a little uneasy. It’s not one of your favourite book series and now you’re looking at the reason why. What happened in the pages bore no relation to the concept of SSC, which you’ve learned stands for safe, sane and consensual. At least two of those were missing from just about every scenario. You continue reading, now thoroughly intrigued.

Three cheat sheets, six websites and a couple of chats later, you get up to wash out your coffee mug and to take a break. Leaning against the sink, you breathe deeply, processing everything in your mind. On the whole, the idea of submitting to Chris is not something that turns you off. If last night is anything to go by, he’s definitely in the sane category and takes great care to stay in the consensual one as well. Safe seems to be his play-word and you have to give him props for being prepared with a condom even if you had said no to having amazing sex with him over the back of the couch.

It still feels like you don’t even know the first thing about being a submissive.

The thing that sticks in your craw is your natural personality. You’re a bit of a firecracker and proudly so – you take no shit, pull no punches and are not afraid to bust balls. It’s how you got this far in business. While your research says that whatever goes on outside of a scene should stay outside of a scene, you wonder if you are capable of that kind of control. But you think about Chris and his quiet but assertive manner and vaguely wonder what it was about domination that attracted him to the lifestyle.

First things first, though. You leave the sink and grab your phone, returning to the couch and flopping down as you call through. It takes a few rings to get through and the voice on the line sounds tired, but happy. “I didn’t expect a call so soon.”

“Are you somewhere we can talk?”

“I’m in my office. We won’t be disturbed.”

“Huh. You’re still there?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m trying to broker a deal for a merger.” His voice is playful, but the steely undercurrent reminds you that, insofar as business is concerned, you are for all intents and purposes rivals.

“Duly noted. I’ve been doing my research in relation to what we discussed and I have a few questions.”

“I’m glad. It makes me feel better that you’ve been educating yourself. How can I help?”

You let out a long breath. “This…  _thing_  we’re getting into. It’s not total power exchange, is it? Because I’m definitely not down with that.”

“Neither am I. TPE takes a certain type of dedication and with our jobs, there’s no way for that to be feasible. Besides, it’s a lot of work being a full-time master. I’m happier being a Sir for times when we both agree on it.”

“I’m assuming you’re completely into the whole SSC thing as well?”

“Darling, let me tell you this – you absolutely, positively  _don’t_  want to be involved with a dom who isn’t. The lifestyle is fun and a little pain can be pleasurable. I know people who are even into bloodplay. But keeping it safe, sane and consensual  _matters_. If it’s not, it’s abuse and needs to be reported to the authorities.” The assured tone in his voice takes the bite out of your nervousness. He certainly  _sounds_  like he knows what he’s doing.

“I don’t know what my limits are yet. Not all of them, anyway. Bloodplay is  _definitely_ out, along with suspension.”

“Duly noted. They aren’t in my handbook, either. I do, however, enjoy bondage and even a little breath play. Blindfolds are also fun.”

You grin at the ceiling. “Not all of that sounds like it sucks.”

“Oh no, darling. You’ll be the one doing the sucking.”

A shiver runs through you and you roll your shoulders against the cushions behind you. “Will I now?”

“If last night is anything to go by, then yes, you certainly will.”

“Well, if my sir commands…” you hear a groan from the other end of the phone and frown. “What?”

“Don’t… don’t do that while I’m at work. I’ll never get anything done if you start like that.”

Your grin turns wicked and you roll onto your front. “Like what, sir? I need more direction.”

“I’m serious. Now is not the time or the place. You will cease that immediately.” Suddenly, you realise that it’s not Chris the friend or Mr. Evans the CFO talking. This was the dom, your soon-to-be Sir. His voice was deep – rich and warm – with a stern but caring tone to it. The kind of voice that says bend over, darling, grab your ankles and let me show you what you’ve been missing.

You could  _totally_  get behind – or in front of – that idea.

You chuckle down the phone at the thought. “Okay, I give. Are you going to be busy for the rest of the day?”

“It looks like I might be. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I promised myself I’d switch my phone off this weekend. Get some ‘me’ time in.”

“Sounds like a plan. We could do dinner tonight, if you’re interested?”

“We did dinner last night. I was interested.”

There’s a bark of laughter down the phone at you. “I mean a  _proper_  dinner. Where I wear a suit and take you somewhere secluded but fancy and we both pretend we know more about wine other than it comes in red, white and rose and silently wish we were at home with chinese and a beer.”

“Sounds fantastic.” You remember something you thought about earlier. “Chris, you never did answer me last night. Have  _you_  ever been in love?”

The line goes quiet for a few moments and you wonder if you’ve crossed some imaginary line and consider trying to recant your statement when you hear him clear his throat. “Tonight. I promise you I’ll talk about it tonight over dinner. There’s things I don’t want to talk about when I’m at the office and being in love is one of them.”

“I understand.” You really don’t, but you figure you’ll find out tonight anyway. A few more hours of waiting isn’t going to kill you and you have things to do. “I’ll see you around seven thirty?”

“Sounds great. I’ll send details soon.”

“Okay.” The nerves must have been apparent in your voice, because he gives you one last placation before he hangs up. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, stabilising your heartbeat. Dinner tonight with your business rival and apparently new Dom. This should be interesting.


	7. Chapter 7

Nerves are normal.

You can still remember the first time you were nervous in business. You were sitting in your best second-hand suit, trying to obtain a loan from the bank in order to get your start-up company off the ground. The man who had sat behind the desk would remind you of Alan in the coming years, but he had seemed so intense and scowly as he had carefully read through your loan application and looked up things on his computer. You had almost bitten your lip clean-through by the end of the meeting, but you had sat straight-backed for the whole thing. Never show weakness, or the sharks will feast.

But Chris is not a shark and you  _have_  been weak with him.

 As you stand in front of your full-length mirror, holding up an elegant soft grey pant-suit and a gorgeous black dress with a sweetheart neckline and caplet sleeve to decide on what to wear to dinner, you consider what becoming a sub would mean. It wasn’t weakness, though you had to admit you were soft where Chris was concerned. Only outside of work, though – you weren’t prepared to budge an inch in the board-room. But he was shaping up to be an incredible partner and, in the long term, a wonderful boyfriend. You snort softly to yourself and put the pant-suit away, laying the dress out on your bed. It was better not to entertain that thought just yet. There was a long way to go before that discussion would be tabled.

Chris had texted the details – he would be at your apartment at seven thirty to take you to dinner, then the rest of the night would be free for you both to decide on. It was nice, if a little nerve-wracking. Your mind keeps wandering back to the idea of fucking him over the back of the couch and the possibility of this reoccurring. You wouldn’t turn it down, but you wonder if maybe dipping your toe into the whole lifestyle thing might be worth a try. Just a toe, mind you. You’re not quite ready for some of those elaborate restraints you’ve spotted on your googling adventures.

Shower, moisturise, blowdry, hairspray. Make-up; classic and simple. Proper silk stockings to make you feel that extra little bit sexy. Shoes with a heel, but not high enough to break your neck on. Lips the colour of blood, glossed to perfection after one last cigarette. Your reflection blinks slowly back at you through long, dark lashes lined with black. This isn’t the CEO, this is the purveyor of dirty talk and impure thoughts. Tonight, you’re just a woman, going on a date with a handsome man.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been one of those.

The knock on your door comes promptly at seven thirty. By this time, you’ve passed through the nerves, the panic and the over-compensating confidence to the equilibrium of waiting patiently. Your heels click on the wooden floor as you move to greet your date, picking up your keys and your bag on the way.

Chris stands on the other side of the door – short hair immaculately trimmed, his beard all but gone (you feel a little sad but notice the light stubble he’s sporting) above his well-cut sleek black suit. His cobalt blue shirt is accompanied by a black silk tie held in place by his usual platinum tie pin. The shine on his black leather shoes could be used as a flashlight. He’s preoccupied with looking down the stairs until he hears the door open and turns to greet you with a customary grin. Said grin almost freezes in place as he takes your look in and his expression morphs into something akin to awe. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look  _good_.”

You return a grin. “Not so bad yourself, Evans.”

“No, really, you look  _really_  good. As in ‘can we just stay in while I fuck you in that dress’ good.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. “What do you think?”

You laugh at his childishness. “We have a reservation and I want to eat. Fucking can wait until later.” Upon spying his pout, you shake your head. “We’ll save the fucking for later.”

“Please  _God_ , let that be a promise,” he groans as he holds out his arm to you as you carefully lock the door and turn back to him. Tucking the keys into your clutch, you take his elbow and pull close to him, inhaling the delicious smell of his cologne.

“Only if you’re a  _very_  good boy,” you murmur with a wink.

* * *

Corelli’s is just on the outskirts of the top restaurant district. Those who know where it is know to make a reservation, because only those in the know ever come here. It’s a small Italian restaurant, but the chef makes the food to the recipes handed down through his family for generations. It looks like every other down-town restaurant, until you realise who is eating there. It’s one of your favourite spots to eat.

You walk with Chris downstairs, leave the building and head to where Chris’ black Maserati Ghibli sits gleaming in the orange glow of the streetlight. You snort softly. Boys and their toys. Chris definitely has a young man’s car. A well-dressed, slightly older man in a black trilby tips his hat at Chris and opens the door for you as you approach. Your date helps you in and you accidentally flash the top of your stockings as you climb into the seat. A hiss of breath causes you to look up, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Are – are those what I think they are?”

You gently take his hand and slide it slowly up your calf and stop as it hits your delicate garters. “You tell me.”

Chris groans and pulls his hand away, straightening up. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Not so,” you reply, then look for your driver. He’s not paying any attention as you lean in and whisper “if I was trying to do that, I’d be telling you what I’m wearing underneath the dress.”

Chris pulls himself together and tucks his hands behind his back. “ _Bad_  girl,” he admonishes, using the same tone he had when you had been teasing him at work. “You  _will_  behave yourself in my car.”

That tone floors you and you are suddenly very,  _very_  sorry for what you’ve said. But a little thrill lights up your spine at Chris’ handling of the situation. He’d gone straight into dominant mode without touching you and really, he was just telling you to act like a lady when there are other people about, something your mother had always insisted upon.

The man in question slides into his seat on the other side of the car and the driver closes the door behind him. “His name is Michael,” Chris tells you, “he’s been my driver for the past three and a half years. Good man. Has a family. Very discreet.” Your date raises his voice as the driver gets into the car. “Michael, how’s Eileen?”

“Very well, sir. She passes on her compliments for the flowers you sent on her birthday and says thank you for the dinner you set up for the two of us.”

Chris preens in delight and you grin lopsidedly. There’s a soft side to this man a hundred feet wide. He taps on the wall that separates the front seat from the back and Michael raises the heavily tinted divider. Suddenly, you’re  _there_ : in the back seat of a ridiculously expensive car with an obscenely good-looking man going to an exclusive restaurant. The butterflies in your stomach that shouldn’t be there in the first place start going nuts.

The car pulls away from the kerb and purrs quietly up the street you live in towards the city itself. Chris settles back in his seat, his appreciative gaze sweeping over you from head to foot. You’re not in the least bit intimidated by this scrutiny and sit back, crossing your legs demurely. He chuckles darkly and drops his chin to his chest. Okay, you’ll bite. “What?”

“I think the thing I like the most about you is that you genuinely don’t give two shits about what people think about you.”

“Well, that is empirically not true. I care very much about what people think of me.”

“I mean that you don’t care what people think you look like.”

“I don’t care what  _you_  think I look like. I know you think I look hot. Undressing me with your eyes isn’t going to get a rise out of me, if that’s what you’re aiming for. Remember, I’ve seen you naked.”

“I’ve seen  _you_  naked. Sucking my dick.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t exactly  _complaining_  about it, were you?”

“Probably about as much as you were when I had you bent over the couch.”

You laugh, leaning your head back against the rest. “We really are perfectly matched, aren’t we?”

Chris leans over and takes your hand, squeezing it gently and giving you a very sweet and gentle look. “Yeah, I think we are.”

“Pity we didn’t try this before the whole merger thing. Would have made dating you a lot less complicated.”

“But infinitely less fun.” He lets go of your hand, but not of your attention. “Would you like to play a little game?”

“What  _kind_ of game?”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it, I promise.” He scoots over and places the hand he has just extricated on the top of your thigh, stroking it slowly. His lips drop to your ear as he toys with the hem of your dress. “Consider it a taste of things to come. If at any time you’re not comfortable with this, just say the word ‘finish-line’ and I’ll stop.”

You’ve read about safe-words. They’re extremely important when engaging in BDSM play and clearly Chris has something in mind to get you accustomed to being a sub. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing drastic. I’m going to finger-fuck you in the back of this very expensive car, with my driver just over there and you’re going to stay very, very quiet. To help with this, I’m going to kiss you – something I’ve been dying to do since you answered the door.” You turn your head to look him in the eye and your noses brush softly. It’s only a brief contact, but it sends shivers through you. You can see it in the dark lust hazing those gorgeous blue eyes. His pupils have dilated in the low light and that pout is slightly open and wet from him licking his lips. It’s a heady invitation that seems impossible to refuse and, dammit, you want him. You want him  _badly_.

_Fuck_.

He leans in to brush his lips against yours and murmurs “Not. A. Sound” before claiming your mouth in a passionate kiss that drives all sense out of your brain as your hands come up to his shoulders to hold him in place as you kiss him back.  _God, this man can kiss_. Ever since you first saw him, you’ve had a thing about his mouth and he seems to understand that with perfect clarity. Oral fixations don’t get much better than this.

His inquisitive hand slips beneath your skirt and trails up your inner thigh as you spread your legs for him, muffling the sound of a moan through your nose against his cheek. He pulls back slightly and tuts as his fingers reach your barely-there panties. “No no, I said  _quiet_. If you can’t keep quiet - “ he purrs as his finger tips stroke you delicately through the fabric, “You’ll have to wait until we get home. Is that what you want?” You bite your lip and shake your head. Chris lifts his chin a little, assessing your reaction. “Darling, you  _can_  answer me here, for the moment.”

“No,  _Sir_ ,” you reply, remembering his preferred title. His eyes light up with delight at your obedience.

“Good. I’m pleased with your answer.” A spike of excitement shoots through you at his praise – which surprises you - and you decide to examine that reaction at a later time. For now, you’re just happy that his lips are back on yours, his tongue is languidly mapping your mouth and his fingers are exploring the edges of your panties before slipping past the edges to stroke you properly. You gasp a little but it’s more of a sharp inhalation of air. You’re a fast learner and if  _Sir_  doesn’t want you to speak, then that is _exactly_  what  _Sir_  will fucking get.

One of your hands tangles up in his hair as he finds your clit and rubs it in slow circles with his thumb. The pressure isn’t nearly enough to bring you to a screaming orgasm on first contact, but it’s clear that’s not what he’s aiming for. He’s going for the slow burn and it’s going quite well. You pull him closer to you and lift a leg to hook across his lap in a half-straddle. He buries two fingers inside you and begins a slow, torturous thrust of his hand as he breaks your kiss for breath and rubs his nose alongside yours. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs as you wrap your arms around his neck and press your foreheads together.

Words get stuck in your throat. You want to talk, but he has said no. If you speak, he’ll stop and you’ll be frustrated until either he changes his mind or you end up home alone in your bed, getting yourself off to the idea of fucking him in the back of the Ghibli. Your hips rock hard against his hand and his gaze follows your face as your head tips back and he brings you to your silently screaming release, back arched and supported by his other broad hand. He kisses the hollow of your throat and helps you slide back into your seat slowly, carefully rearranging your dress and hair as he brings his hand away from the inside of your thighs. “Are you okay?”

Feeling winded, you nod. “Fine, I’m fine. First time I’ve done that, though.” You look through the tinted glass to where Michael has his eyes trained firmly on the road. “Did he…”

“No.” Chris shakes his head firmly. “The divider allows for sound-proofing. I had the car custom-outfitted when I bought it. Given my predilections, I knew I was going to need it if a sub got particularly vocal.”

“Sub?” The question hangs without saying –  _not a girlfriend?_

“Sub.” The tone has finality to it and you raise an eyebrow at him. Chris sighs and nods. “I did promise, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I’ll explain as we eat,” he replies as the car pulls up outside of Corelli’s. Chris lets himself out and is almost immediately around to the other side. As he helps you out into the night air, he brushes your hair back over one of your ears and whispers softly. “Are you ready for round two?”

You smile and lick your lips, making a mental note to reapply your lipstick before you get inside. “Always, Sir.”


	8. Chapter 8

Corelli’s is a nice, understated restaurant. The interior design has walls in a light turquoise with faded red plaid tablecloths over white linen. The chairs are dark-stained wood with high, padded curved backs in a deep maroon which adds a warmth and character to the place. The decorations remind you of your last trip to Tuscany; large terracotta urns and small bronze sculptures to enhance the ambience. It’s relaxed without being too shabby and the perfect place for your first ‘official’ date.

If it is a date.

Neither of you has put a label on what ‘this’ was… is. Whatever. The scenario in the car has taken the edge of your libido, but watching the man move with purpose between the tables and following the waiter, suit jacket swishing slightly over that fantastic ass is akin to watching the best porn. At the back of the restaurant, there are three booths for a little more privacy. Just as you think you’re going to be directed to one, the waiter continues past them and leads you out to a small terrace with a single table set up with two chairs, lit up by starlight and overlooking a small pond surrounded by night jasmine and where koi carp swim lazily. There is already a bowl of breadsticks and a jug of water on the table and you are briefly curious what it took to set this up. You didn’t know Corelli’s did this kind of thing. Oh well, the more you learn.

Chris circles around the table and pulls out the chair like a gentleman for you, as the waiter disappears back inside. It’s a small gesture, but it makes you smile as you nod your thanks and take a seat. After he has made sure you are comfortable, he takes the chair across from you and folds his hands neatly on the table, looking up at you with a shy smile. “Hi there.”

You laugh gently, grinning at his boyish nature. “Hi yourself.” You gesture at the area around you. “This is good. I didn’t know Corelli’s did this.”

“Generally they only do it for anniversaries and proposals, but I managed to sweet-talk the manager into letting us have it for tonight. I explained that we would need some privacy.”

“I’ll concede that point to you. It’s probably best that we’re not seen in public together.”

Chris shakes his head. “I couldn’t give two fucks whether people see us together. The worst they can do is take me off the merger and in my position only the CEO can do that… and I know he won’t.”

You sit back, studying his face. “You think that’s a possibility? That your CEO might remove you from this?”

Chris shrugs. “It still won’t stop me seeing you. They can’t control me as much as they think they can.”

“A man who cannot be chained,” you murmur, your eyes dropping from his to his hands. Your gaze turns thoughtful. “Were you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“A dominant personality. Is it something that you’ve developed in your job or is it just who you are?”

“It’s always been the way. I’ve always been a leader, even back in school. I never backed down from a fight or a dare – something in me just won’t let it go. Over the recent few years, I  _have_ examined that about myself and I have been seeing a shrink occasionally to work on the parts of my personality that aren’t exactly  _endearing_.” He smirks ironically at this. “I know I’m stubborn, that I can be a bit arrogant and occasionally narcissistic. I know I try to exert control over all areas of my life and that occasionally the situation  _really_  doesn’t call for it. I also know that a good Sir recognises his own weaknesses and works at improving himself.” Your eyes lift back up to his as he mentions his title and it makes him smile. “This is what I’m offering you. I am a good Sir, always have been. But there is always more to learn, always some way to improve yourself. I promise to always treat you with kindness and respect, to heed your wishes and your safe-words, to give you what you need when you need it and not a moment before. Darling, I’m offering you  _me_. Will you take it?”

The night falls as silent as a night can – the sound of crickets and the croaking of a frog near the pond below you as you process his words.  _Hang on a minute…_  “You never told me if you’d ever been in love. In the car, you told me that you had it custom-fitted in case a sub got too loud. I need more than some pretty words, Evans. I need some answers. You wanted to know about me? I  _need_  to know about you.” You fold your arms across your chest and stare him down. If there’s one thing you do well, it’s getting a man to crack under the pressure of your gaze.

He nods, pausing briefly to divest himself of his suit jacket and drape it carefully over the back of the chair. Once comfortable, he sighs resignedly. “I don’t like talking about it. However, I’m told that talking about it is apparently healthy.” He rolls his eyes and you half-grin at this gesture of stubbornness. “While I don’t think I was or have ever  _been_  in love, there was one woman with whom I was in a long-term relationship with.”

“What was her name?” You lean forward and pick up your glass of water, sipping slowly. For a moment, you think he’s not going to respond with a name – something that wouldn’t bother you in the least. You know you’re getting into territory he’d rather not revisit and taking it slow would be a great idea.

“Minka. Her name was Minka.”

And that’s when it all becomes so very, very clear.

Minka Kelly isn’t exactly a celebrity in the business world, but that’s mainly because she’s usually the one pulling the strings behind some of the biggest business deals Wall Street has ever seen. She’s also the best-kept secret for businesses wanting to stay under the radar when it comes to takeovers. It also helps that she’s fabulously beautiful. Your voice is remarkably level as you word your response carefully. “I see.”

“Let me explain. Please.”

“Oh, you are  _definitely_  going to explain this one.”

Chris sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I knew you’d be angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay, yes I  _am_ , but really, Chris, did you expect me  _not_  to be?”

“No, I fully expected you to be furious and storm out of here the moment you heard her name and – quite possibly – I think you still might. If that’s your decision, fine. I’ll live with it. But I also think you’re the kind of woman who wants the full story before she makes a decision.”

He’s got you there. You nod at him. “Continue.”

“Minka and I… well, let’s just say it was a bad idea from the start, but I don’t think either of us could really let go of each other. It’s been over a year now and I’m finally at the point where I can stop comparing everything to what she did, what she said, how she acted. It’s been hard, but like I said, I identified my weaknesses and started working on them.”

“Was she involved in the lifestyle?”

“No. I mentioned it to her once, but she was only interested in appearances. Be seen here while the work you’ve done takes place over there. Her game is subterfuge and I hated it. Hate it.” The small correction tugs at your heartstrings a little.

“How did it start and why did it end?”

“It started at a charity gala, three years ago. We’d fooled around a bit before both of us hit it big, but this was the first time either of us had the time or the energy to invest in a relationship. I was a bit drunk, she was a bit tipsy and we ended up in bed together. That night wasn’t as good as the morning after was.” He smiles fondly in remembrance and you allow him that. Ex-lovers come with memories, both good and bad. “It was a fiery thing, her and I. We worked on a couple of cases together – she’s got research skills that would make a P.I. keel over. Things only started going sour once I was made CFO.”

“That was two years ago, right?”

“Right. Suddenly, I was in a position of actual power and she didn’t like letting go of the reins a bit. She sees herself as the ringmaster, the one who cracks the whip while we all dance. Then I was in a board position and I knew how she operated. I was her weak point. To be fair, she was mine as well. Everyone knew what she was like and how her consults usually ended with someone losing their company.” Chris pauses as the waiter returns with a bottle of very good pinot noir and pours a glass for each of you. Once you are alone again, he continues. “The fighting was constant. We’d both be away for work more often than not and I wasn’t exactly _happy_  with some of her business practices. I know I’m being hypocritical, considering I had her help me on some harder mergers, but the truth of it is when you get to the top, look down and see the view, you realise that things need to change and be  _better_ … or the view is going to turn to shit  _real_  fast.”

He picks up the glass of wine and takes a long drink as you turn your own in your hands. “How did it end?”

Chris puts down the glass and stares at it for a moment. “She found out about my lifestyle.”

“Found out?”

“I told her. I knew her views on the matter, so I had always done my best to keep that part of my life away from her. When I brought it up with her when we started seeing each other, she told me she didn’t want to be a part of that, which I respected. I didn’t understand that she meant that she didn’t want  _me_  to be involved with it, either.”

“There must’ve been a catalyst?”

“There was. Before the Ghibli, I owned a really  _nice_ Lamborgini Gallardo.” He hears your snort and has the decency to blush slightly. “Yeah, I know it’s a dick car. I’m well aware of that. Anyway, I had it sent in to get work done on it – the same kind of retrofit that the Ghibli has. When Minka found out where my car was, what was happening to it and why, she hit the roof. She left that night and I haven’t seen her since.”

This is a lot to process in one evening and one glass of wine isn’t anywhere  _near_  enough. You wish that damn waiter would come back out so you can scull your glass and then neck the rest of the bottle. Chris reaches across the table to take your hand and, surprisingly, you let him. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “I’m sorry. You deserved to know about this from the outset.”

It takes a moment, but you muster your thoughts in order and look him in the eye. “Chris, I don’t know if we’re dating… but if we  _are_ , then I want you to know this – I’m dating you. Not your exes, not your job, not your bank balance or your parents. I’m dating the beer-swilling, chinese food-loving, slightly kinky man with good taste in suits and terrible taste in video games. That being said, if I find out that you’re fucking me over, I pre-emptively reserve the right to remove your testicles and fashion them into a pair of unusual yet classy earrings.”

Chris chuckles and nods. “That’s perfectly fair,” he replies, leaning to kiss your hand before letting go and picking up his menu. “You know, I really don’t come here as often as I would like.”

“It’s handy to my office, so I’m here once a week,” you say thoughtfully as you study the dishes on offer. A seafood linguine sounds divine. “You should really try the tiramisu if you haven’t already.”

“Sounds delightful. I rarely have time for dessert.”

“I can change that.”

He grins wickedly at you over the table. “Oh  _really_?”

“Oh yes. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, ice-cream… there’s always time for a sweet treat.” Okay,  _now_  you’re back on your game and from the look on his face, so is he. The waiter chooses this moment to reappear and ask what you would like to start. Without taking his eyes off you, Chris orders a dozen oysters with lemon and another bottle of the pinot. The waiter sweeps away as you raise an eyebrow at him. “Oysters?”

“An aphrodisiac. Also quite delicious.”

“What if I don’t like oysters?”

“You were eyeing up the seafood section. I took an educated guess. Do you not like oysters?”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“Well then.” He crosses his arms across his chest, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Now that you and I know each other a little better, would you like to play a little game?”


	9. Chapter 9

“Another game?” You raise an eyebrow, but can’t quite force the sneaky grin out from the side of your mouth. “After the bombshell you just dropped on me?”

Chris’ face is the very picture of innocence. “Well, if you don’t  _want_  to play, I guess I can find other ways of amusing myself.”

“Ooh, that’s a dirty, dirty tactic.” You lean your elbows on the table in a most unladylike fashion, propping up your chin with the heels of your palms. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oysters.”

“Oysters?”  _Oysters aren’t a game, they’re a delicious shellfish that you swallow down whole._ “How do you mean?  _What_  do you mean? What have oysters got to do with anything?”

At that moment, the waiter returns with a fresh bottle of wine and the seafood in question. They smell unequivocally fresh and the shells nestle snugly on a small bed of sea salt interspersed with lemon wedges. The waiter places the bottle of wine on the table next to the oysters. “Madam, Sir, I took the liberty of foregoing the request for red and providing one of our sommelier’s personal favourite whites to accompany the oysters. I think it will be a better match for the entreé.”

“Thank you, yes,” Chris replies, his eyes still on you. The waiter nods and leaves the pair of you alone again after uncorking the wine, which he explains is a particularly nice sauvignon blanc from the Malborough vineyards in New Zealand. You have to agree with the waiter, it’s a very good choice and one you would have probably made yourself if you weren’t so distracted with Chris.

You keep your eyes fixed on him as he pours out the wine into fresh glasses. “So, like I said, what’s the game?”

Chris places the wine bottle back on the table and smooths down his shirt front with one broad hand. “Back in the car, you were a very good girl. You didn’t make so much as a peep as I had my way with you. This pleased me greatly. Not many first-time Subs can acquiesce to a Dom’s requests so easily. So here’s what I’m going to do.” He leans forward and you find yourself following suit, as if he’s not going to speak loud enough for  you to hear. “There are twelve oysters on this plate. Six are mine, obviously, but the other six you will have to earn.”

Your mouth goes a bit dry. “How?”

“I am going to climb under this table. No-one will see me, due to the long tablecloth. You will pull your chair in spread your legs for me. For every orgasm you can sit silently through, you may have an oyster. The moment you make a sound, I will stop and you will have no more oysters and any remaining will be forfeit to me.” His smile is wickedly debauched and you are absolutely, one hundred percent,  _definitely_  in on this. Who knew being a Sub could be this much fun?

“Alright, I’m in.”

“Would you like to choose a safe-word? Or will we stick with ‘finish-line’?” Chris asks. You look at the table in front of you and frown for a moment, before nodding to yourself.

“White. I choose white. Red can be slow down, but keep going.”

Chris follows your gaze, then realises your inspiration and chuckles. “You little alcoholic, you,” he chides gently. He knows you’re not, but it’s enough to earn him a light slap on his knuckles.

“Don’t be an asshole,” you warn. “Alcoholism is no laughing matter.”

“Quite right, too,” he answers, pushing his chair back and loosening his tie. This joins his coat over the back of his chair and he unbuttons the top of his shirt, giving him a louche look. With a flourish of his wrist, a napkin is whipped off the table and tucked at his neck. He winks. “Precaution. I like this suit and I’m a messy eater.”

 _Holy shit_.

He crouches, then crawls beneath the table, hidden from view by the long tablecloth as you draw your chair in and lift the edge of the tablecloth onto your lap. For a long moment, nothing happens. The night is quiet and you reach for your wine and take a sip, relaxing back into your chair. You try to be ready, but he’s not moving, not touching you in any way. In some small part, you silently thank him for this. It allows you to order your thoughts and de-clutter your mind. After the small argument the two of you just had, the tension between your shoulders had been threatening to knot, but as you sit surrounded by the small noises of the evening, you feel the stress and anxiety melt away. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yes, this  _is_  good.

Right up until you feel him press his lips to the inside of your right ankle.

You almost spit out the wine in your mouth as your free hand grips the table, swallowing hard as you feel him press firm, warm, damp open-mouthed kisses to the spot, working his way up your calf.  The wine glass in your hand rattles against the tabletop as you place it unsteadily back down, mind preoccupied with the stimulus you cannot see. When he reaches the inside of your knee – and the knuckles of your hand have turned white – he backs off. You wait patiently and perfectly still for a moment. Then his voice echoes from under the table. “Pass me a oyster.”

_What?_

Chris’ face pops up between your thighs and you push the tablecloth back to look at him. His grin is so downright wicked, you’re half-convinced he’s the devil. “Just squeeze a little lemon on it first, though. I like it a little tart.” You open your mouth to respond, but Chris raises an eyebrow at you. You close your mouth slowly.  _Right, no speaking at all_. You reach for an oyster and a lemon wedge as Chris nuzzles your inner thigh and continues being an enormous distraction. Oyster sufficiently lemon-fied, you bring the shell to Chris’ mouth. He smirks, opens his mouth slowly and allows you to tip the fleshy sea creature into his mouth. He swallows it whole and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he licks his lips decadently. “Delicious,” he purrs, pressing a kiss against your leg. “You should try one.”

His lips are cool and wet and you shiver as he traces the curve of your knee with his nose. You cock an eyebrow at him and purse your lips in a playful way and he chuckles. “All in good time.” He disappears back under the table and resumes his caresses, this time on the other leg. You squeeze your thighs together, holding back a groan as the feeling heads straight for your groin. It’s ridiculous and that waiter is  _bound_ to notice that your companion has vanished from your company if he comes back out. Through the haze of lust disrupting your brain, you vaguely conclude that Chris must’ve tipped him to stay inside for a while, because there is  _no_ way that any server worth his salt would stay away for this long.

You feel the brush of Chris’ stubble back at your knees and a gentle grip pries them apart as he moves upward to further his assault of your senses. A quiet hum, almost inaudible, emanates from under the table as his head moves closer to you. Unseen hands pull your chair closer to the table, then fingers toy with the tops of your garters. It’s maddening and you half-consider just telling him to get on with it when you feel two fingers slide beneath the edge of your panties. The tips of his fingers stroke you, dipping lightly into your wetness, before they move the crotch of your panties aside and the sensation of the flat of Chris’ tongue lapping at you in broad stripes takes over.

It’s too much. He’s teased for too long and now the orgasm he’s been working you up to curls like fire through your blood, causing you to buck hard and shake the cutlery noisily. A harsh _shhh_  comes from between your thighs and it’s like lightning is coursing through you. You suck in a deep breath and hold steady as he assaults your clit and brings you over the edge. The groans catch in your throat as your head tips back and you look up,  _literally_  seeing stars as your legs shake and your thighs grip the sides of his head.  _Stop, please, too much_ …

“Red,” you whisper in a hoarse voice. Chris’ head pops up from under the tablecloth, a concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“I need… I need a moment.”

He slides out from beneath the table and crouches beside you, a worried look in his face. “Do you need some water? I can get some water. What about a more comfortable chair? Is this one okay?” You shoot him a deadpan look and he chuckles. “Or I can shut up right now, because I realise I’m babbling.” He reaches up to your face and strokes it gently. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I  _am_  okay. I just needed some recovery time. That was… pretty intense.”

Chris gives you a filthy grin. “Wasn’t it just.” He nods towards the plate of oysters. “You can have one, now. Would you please pass me one, too?”

“With lemon?”

“Of course.” You lemon up the oysters, hand one to him and slurp the other down yourself. It’s fresh and delicious, sliding silkily down your throat. You hum your approval as Chris places his shell back on the plate and takes yours from your hand. “Again?”

You take a sip of wine and nod soundlessly.  _Game on_.

It takes another two rounds before Chris manages to get a sound out of you. He claims the remaining oysters like you knew he would and the rest of the evening passes over good food, good conversation and great company. By the time the last of the tiramisu is scraped clean of the plates, you find yourself in the very dangerous position of falling hard for this cheeky, irreverent man in a nice suit.

A short drive home to your apartment and you’re both standing outside your door, arms wrapped around each other and bestowing smiling kisses in between little giggles. He brushes your hair behind your ear gently and blinks slowly. “You know, you’re really something else.”

“Don’t make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not, I promise. I just…” he trails off, sighing. You nod, knowing where this is going.

“You wish we could have met properly before the merger negotiations.”

“It would have made things so much easier, don’t you think?”

“Whether it would or wouldn’t is irrespective of where we are now. If you’d prefer to call the whole thing off…”

“No!” His face twists in panic. “No, I don’t! I won’t have my life dictated by my job! I’m not just a CFO, I’m a human being!” He bites his lip in worry and his eyes search your face. “Please. Don’t think of me as my job. I have enough people who do that already. I want to be with someone who just wants Chris, the way he is. Not his bank balance. Not his job. Not his exes or parents.” The echo of your earlier words makes you smile and you hold him close, resting your head against his chest and listening to his heart beat steady and strong. You feel his cheek against the top of your head and his lips move. “I want  _you_.”


	10. Chapter 10

_I want you_ .

Three little words, running around in circles inside your head as you try valiantly to conduct yourself as a proper business woman should. You are trying to keep your company afloat, damn it, but those three little soul-eating words seem determined to ruin your concentration. Over the course of a few days, you and Chris have discussed further scenarios that you might be interested in – sex at work, working up to light bondage, what kind of schedule to put on it. You mutually agree that letting things happen naturally might be for the best and would help you both to learn important lessons about each other.

Alan seems to know that something is up and asks to see you after lunch on the third day after your date. Damn that man and his perceptive nature. Still, if there is anyone who you know you can trust in this business, it's Alan. He's never lied to you, never asked for more than he needed and never,  _ever_ treated you with an ounce of sexism. You asked him about it, once – about how he was very different in his outlook than his contemporaries. After a brief huff, he mentioned that he had once been in your shoes and that it had been the director of a small company who had shown him respect for his ideas and had towed him into line when he had needed it. The woman's name was Gladys Daczynski and he had never forgotten her, long after she sold the company and it had been broken into subsections and later sold off. When he had suffered a health scare in his mid-fifties, he had tried to dial back the fast-paced, high executive lifestyle (which helped when wife #2 had walked out). He needed a change and to start again, which was when he met you and the two of you had taken on the big boys together.

So that's why you agree to meet him. If there is anyone in the company who knows it better than you do, it's Alan. You spend your lunch hour catching up on emails and reading reporting whilst simultaneously trying  _not_ to slop your Pad Thai down your clean, white shirt. It just wouldn't do to go into a business meeting looking like a slob and you already have your PA running other errands. Picking up a non-stained shirt would be out of the question.

At one thirty, you pick up your tablet and phone, ready to meet with your CFO. Strolling casually down the hall and smiling at your employees as you go, you set yourself up in meeting room two. Room one currently has a few new staff being trained on complaint handling and you make a mental note to poke your head in and see how it's all going after the meeting.

“ Ah, you're here.” You raise your head to see Alan step lightly through the door, closing it quietly behind him. He looks good – navy suit and tie over a black shirt and dress shoes. He takes a seat across from you, placing a file on the table and studies you carefully. “Well, I suppose I should ask how you are.”

You chuckle. “As well as I can be, Alan.”

“ Indeed. You seem...  _happier_ , I guess the word would be.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“ Something's different.”

“ Good different or bad different?”

“ That remains to be seen.” He leans back in the chair and folds his hands across his stomach. “That boy, Evans. What do you make of him?”

You shrug. “Nothing we can't handle. He's a little boy in a big man's game. Chip on his shoulder, something to prove. He'll play fast and hard, but he'll make mistakes doing it. That's where we'll beat him. There's no reason to worry.”

“ You think so?” He pushes the file on the table across to you. “Take a look at this. I think we have reason to start worrying.”

With those words, Alan spooks you. Alan doesn't get worried. Alan is the calm in the eye of the storm. Alan watches serenely as the world burns. So for Alan to be worried, something God-awful must've happened. You gingerly lean across and pick up the file, opening it and allowing the papers to fall into place. Alan keeps his face neutral as he watches you read, the colour draining from your face. You look up in a mild panic. “This  _can't_ be real. They wouldn't dare!”

“ I'm afraid they have.” He rolls his eyes. “Seems that our boy got the drop on us. GCA have had their lawyers to send over the necessary documentation to dissolve the deal.”

“ But... but they signed the contract! They're legally obliged to remain with us for the next twenty-four months!” This is very bad. GCA are a global conglomerate and you had negotiated a landmark partnership with the company to maintain their worldwide intranet. You are now looking at it slipping through your hands like sand.

“ Cooling off period, sweetheart. They can do whatever they like.”

You drop the file back on the table and throw up your hands resignedly. “That's it, then. Unless we can hold on to the farmer's contract, we're done. Did they say why they're throwing in the towel with us?”

“ Interesting you should ask that,” Alan replies dryly. He picks up your tablet and taps through to the internet browser. “I take it you haven't read the news today.”

“ Been busy sorting out the logistics of this rural contract. Alan, what have I -” you trail off as he holds the small computer up to your eye level for you to see.

The headline blurs a little as you take the tablet from your CFO, trying your utmost to reign in your trembling. Splashed on the front page of one of the most respected financial news sources is a photo of Chris, neat as a pin in one of his favourite suits and smirking at his CEO. If that isn't enough to make you sick, the title of the article certainly is.

_**Chris Evans: King of the New Wall Street – What the young CFO's meteoric rise to the top of the Stock Market means for the telecommunications industry.** _

Your eyes catch Alan's and when you open your mouth, he knows you mean business.

“I'm going to fucking  _ kill _ him.”

 

* * *

 

You're studiously ignoring your phone, uninterested in anything that bastard has to say to you. You only answer your main line when you can identify the number coming inbound. You've told – well, snapped at – your receptionist to make sure that you are not disturbed.

_I want you._

I want you? Your ass. More like I want your company. You shake your head sadly, running your fingers through your hair. How could you have been so incredibly  _ stupid _ ? You knew this was going to happen. It was bound to. There was a limitation on what you would put up with. Sure, you knew what the consequences were when you decided to throw caution to the wind and let that smirking asshole fuck you senseless. It was lunacy to believe any good could come of it. Now you were in a worse position that when that prick had announced to the world that he was going to bring your company under his wing and expand the network for 'the benefit of everyone who uses a phone.”.

Like hell. He's only out to benefit himself.

Your phone buzzes again and you briefly consider hurling it at the wall to shut it up. This has to be the eighth call you've let go to message – the eighth call from the same number.  _ His _ . There are fifteen unread text messages and only three aren't from him. By now, he's probably realised how pissed off you really are and is more than likely shitting himself.  _ Good _ . Maybe that'll teach that fuckwit that you're only submissive in the bedroom...

“Ma'am?” Your head shoots up to where your terrified receptionist stands shaking in the doorway. She tries to recompose herself. “I-I tried to tell him that you weren't to be disturbed, but he wouldn't listen-” The sentence dies on her lips as she's hauled out of the way and into the corridor outside of your office by an unseen force. That force becomes incredibly  _ seen _ as Chris storms in, slamming the door behind him with a face full of thunder. He stomps up to your desk and slaps his broad hands down on it.

“Why the  _ hell _ aren't you answering your phone? Huh?” He frowns angrily, his brow furrowing. “Then I get here and your fucking  _ receptionist _ tells me to beat it!”

“ I'm not obliged to be at your beck and call, Evans.” You fold your arms across your chest.

“ Are you going to act like a child about this?”

You glare back at him, refusing to back down and spitting venom on every word. “Me acting like a child? I'm not the fucker who snuck around behind his fuck buddy's back to find something to drag her under, then had my face plastered all over the goddamned news with a smirk on my face that basically said 'the world can go fuck itself'!”

“Oh, so this is  _ my _ fault now!” Chris throws his hands up and spins 180 degrees, before letting his hands fall to his side with a clap. “Should have realised that it would be. Of course there's  _ no _ chance that I had my hand forced in this at all!”

“Are you  _ shitting _ me?” Your voice is climbing in pitch and getting louder. “The new king of fucking  _ Wall Street _ ? Did you even  _ read _ the headline? The goddamn press are treating your little back-stabbing move as a fucking last-ditch goal save while you pull the fucking carpet out from under me!”

“ And since when have we downgraded to fuck-buddies?” He's seething now, the fury boiling in his eyes, as he whips around to face you but you will not yield. Not now, not ever. You raise your chin and sneer at him.

“ Since you decided to be an asshole and rip that contract right out of my hands.”

“ _ You _ should know it's only business.”

“This is MY business!” You're shouting now, practically climbing over the desk to try and claw his eyes out. “Everything you take away from me, you're taking away from the people I care about! Don't you  _ get _ that yet? Don't you understand that you're  _ hurting _ people? What the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you? Were you not loved enough as a child?”

“ It's not my fault!” Chris roars, his bellow echoing around the room. You reel a little as he moves right into your personal space behind the desk. He reaches up to cradle your face, but you moodily jerk your head away.

“ This isn't a game, Chris. We aren't playing now.” Your words are icy, but quieter as the CFO in front of you searches your face for a crack in your armour. The corners of his mouth quirk a little.

“ It could be. We could play a little game.”

“ Get out of my office.”

“ No.” He smirks defiantly at you. “You won't make me leave. You can't.”

“I'm the fucking  _ boss _ , Evans. One phone call and security -” you reach for the landline, but Chris pins your hand to the desk, holding your attention steady.

“I said  _ no _ . When are you going to learn to do what you're told?” He uses his free hand to grasp your jaw and hold it steady as he lands a searing kiss to your lips as you struggle against his hold. He chuckles darkly, eyes half-lidded. “You can try, baby girl. You can try.”

“I  _ hate _ you,” you hiss, not really believing what you're saying but wanting something,  _ anything _ , to use against him. He tuts and frees your hand from the desk.

“ If I thought you meant that, I would have left a long time ago.”

“ Then you're an idiot.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But you're the idiot who's putting up with me.” Two steps and you're spun to face your desk, face pushed down against the financial reports littering it. “Now you've said some  _ very _ hurtful things to me and I can't let that go unpunished.” You feel rather than see him bare your ass to the room and shiver as his palm crosses the flesh. “I think five for those filthy words and another five for your venom.” He leans down to your ear, breaking character for a moment. “Do you remember the safe-word?”

Moments ago, you were furious. Now you are in a scenario that you can control. You nod against the paper. “White,” you whisper hoarsely. Chris straightens and delivers the first smack without further notice. The pain crackles through you, sapping just a little of your anger as you bare your teeth and hiss. Blows two, three and four are delivered in rapid succession and you cry out against them, struggling the hand that lies flat against your spine, holding you down. Your ass is hot against the cool air conditioning and his smacks are landing broader now.

He doesn't hit the same area each time and smooths his palm over each blush he brings to the surface. The contrast between the impact and the intimate caresses he bestows on you gets you soaking in minutes. He counts the first five whacks aloud – whether this is for your own benefit or his, you're not entirely sure. But at the halfway point, his middle and ring fingers slip between your thighs and you hear a throaty moan from somewhere above you. “Jesus  _ fuck _ , you are so wet, baby girl. I didn't realise this wasn't much of a punishment.”

To tell the truth, neither did you. But his authoritarian attitude he had carried into the office had you on edge from the get-go and now? Now you were counting the seconds until he was inside you again. “Don't you have five more to deliver, Sir?”

“ I believe you are correct.” You whine a little as the fingers disappear and are instead replaced by a cracking spank to the rear. You yelp and wriggle, but Chris presses firmly against your back. “Stop. Moving.”

“ It hurts!”

“ It's meant to – you're being punished.”

“ I'm sorry!” You're not, not really. Given different circumstances, you would have torn his balls off and stuffed them down his throat for the issue with the contract. But like he once said to you, that kind of shit stays outside of a scene. There would be time to talk later. Right now, you need to work out your frustration. “I won't do it again!”

_ Whack _ .

“You certainly  _ won't _ . That was awful language.”

_ Whack _ .

“ Please, I'll be good!”

_ Whack. _

“ I'm doing this for your own good.”

_ Whack. _

Suddenly, the pressure lifts from your back and you are gently brought to a standing position, panties around your knees as Chris turns you to face him. He lifts your right palm up gently, eyes still on yours, as he lightly taps three fingers against it. “Ten.” He presses his forehead against yours and his breath ghosts against your lips as he lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around you. “I'm so sorry.”

You shake your head. “I needed that as much as you did.”

“ Did you really mean what you said?”

“ I did then, yes. Chris, how could you do such an awful thing?”

He looks up, retrieving an arm and letting a large hand softly trace the outline of your jaw as he places light kisses against your lips. “You knew what my job was before we started seeing each other. Before we started all of this. You knew that I would have to get aggressive if I wanted the merger to be successful.”

“ But?” The word had been left hanging after the sentence as you chase his kisses with your own. “There's something you're not telling me.”

“ My CEO had intel. I don't know who from or why, but he knew something that neither of us did about GCA. He was in a meeting with them yesterday afternoon that I wasn't invited to and today...” he sighs and rubs his nose against yours. “Today he sprang that fucking contract and press release on me. I truly didn't know what was going on. I was told to stand up, smile and look like we'd just won the lottery... but I swear, I would never use our relationship to go behind your back and get information that might get the merger over the line.”

“ Good.” You kiss him soundly and smile up at him. “Because even if you went looking, there would be nothing to hide.”

Chris finds it hard to hide the smile your comment causes. “Atta girl.” He leans you back against the desk and grimaces when you wince. “Sorry about that.”

You shrug. “I'm not.”

“ I promise you I'll find out where that information came from. I'd rather fight you fairly than be a dirty cheat.”

“ I appreciate that.” You hop up on your desk, ignoring the burn in your ass and spread your thighs wide for him. “Now, I do believe you were going to do something about this?”

Chris chuckles, the dark thoughts of a shadowy mole pushed aside for the moment as he sinks to his knees and grips your calves to pull you a little closer. “At your service, milady.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

It’s a relatively good thing that your desk is sturdy. Every good office requires the presence of a strong desk. It is the focal point of the room and you think it adds a certain gravitas to the room. At least, you do when your mind isn't a puddle of goo and your nerve endings aren't alight with pleasure.

Chris has his face buried between your thighs, lapping slowly at you as you push one hand through his hair and prop yourself up with the other, sighing contentedly. You feel his cheeks move from smiling and can't help but smile back, but he continues on as he promised. 

But even as he works your body like a finely tuned instrument, you can’t help but wonder over where the intel came from. Certainly Chris never visits you in your office outside of board meetings (aside from your recent screaming match).  Who is close enough to you to even  _have_ that kind of information? Alan would, but you know better than to suspect Alan. He’s never been the type to hold back any of his personal opinions about  _anything_. You sigh and drop your head back, causing Chris to look up, eyebrow cocked. “Don’t tell me you’re bored with this already?”

“No... sorry, it’s not you. It’s just...” you trail off, watching your fingers run through his hair. He catches your hand and pulls it down to press against his cheek.

“You’re worried about the leak in your company. It’s okay, I understand. I would be, too. I  _am_.”

“Chris, I don’t want to lose everything. I’ve worked too hard.”

“I know, I know. We’ll find out who the bastard is. I promise.” He smiles and kisses the heel of your palm, reassuring you but you’re not in the mood you were a few minutes ago. He stands, straightening himself out. “I think we’re done for the time being, anyway.”

“Thanks. For understanding, I mean.”

“I’d be a poor Dom if I didn’t. I know when a Sub just isn’t in the right headspace. If you feel better tonight, give me a call. Otherwise, take yourself out. Have a girls’ night out. Go see a movie or something. Relax. I’ll still be here when you need me.”

You tilt your head to the side and regard him with new eyes, a smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “You know, I really believe you.”

“You should. I mean every word.”

“Careful. Anyone would think you’re falling for me.”

It’s a telling pause before he replies. “Would that be so bad?”

“Chris, we can’t. Not just yet, anyway. I need more time.”

He nods. “Quite right. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He places a gentle kiss on your right cheek and grins salaciously at you. “Although I would like to expect some make-up sex in the near future...”

You laugh and slap his shoulder. “Get out of here, crazy man. Before I call security.”

“You’ve already threatened me with that. I know it’s an empty threat.”

 You slide off the table, shimmying your underwear back up and adjusting your skirt. “Now, Chris! I’m a very important person with very important things to do.”

“Or people to do...”

“OUT!” Swivelling him around, you push him gently towards the door, chuckling as he half-heartedly fights back and leans back, making you work for every shuffled step forwards. When he eventually makes it out of the door, you close it gently behind him. Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself and head back to the desk. There’s a phone call you need to make and it’s not going to be an easy one.

* * *

“I must say, this isn’t what I was expecting from my afternoon.”

“Believe me when I say that I echo that sentiment.”

Minka sits across from you, her perfect brown hair catching the afternoon sun and glowing in a burnished bronze, dressed in a neatly pressed charcoal grey two piece with a-line skirt. Her intelligent brown eyes sweep you over, assessing you, but there’s nothing about the look that says that she means you any harm. Her makeup is simple and her mouth is the colour of fairy floss. She sips on her sparkling water as you both wait on your order from the cafe where you met. “Not that this isn’t a lovely catch-up, but people only generally call me when they need something from me. I would prefer total honesty.”

“I need to know if you sold me out to Evans’ CEO.”

 _That_ catches her attention. The soft look in her eyes vanishes and something much harder and intrigued takes its place. “For what reason would I do that?”

“You’re freelance. He might have hired you.”

“And your rationalisation that Chris wasn’t the one who sold you out is...?”

“He didn’t know about the contract. Very few people did. I can account for everyone in my company but not everyone in his.”

“Interesting.” The waiter arrives with Minka’s raspberry friand and coffee. She pulls a little off and pops it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Well, normally I would tell you that my business practices are completely confidential and that you would have to get a warrant to search my data, but thankfully this is one of those rare occasions on which I can say I had absolutely nothing to do with this and I would be happy to let you take a look at my schedule over the last week or so to prove it to you.”

You sink a little into your chair, heaving a sigh. “Well, that’s good news. Still leaves me at square one, though, but at least I know even the great Minka Kelly isn’t making a play for my company.”

“Have you spoken to that CFO of yours?”

“He was the one who tipped me off. I hadn’t read the news yet.”

Minka nods. Your order of a spinach omelette arrives and is settled in front of you. As you eat, the beautiful woman across from you takes out her tablet from her tote and begins tapping on it.

“You have to know that I respect you,” she remarks casually. You pause, a forkful of egg and spinach on its way to your mouth. Minka doesn’t look up. “You never wondered why I never came after your company?”

“It’s been a question in the back of my mind, I’ll admit,” you respond, finishing what was on the fork and leaning forward. “I just figured you had bigger fish to fry.”

“Oh, I do, don’t worry about that. But there have been offers before. Offers to take you down, _ludicrously_ lucrative as well, I might add.”

“You turned them down?”

“Honey, I’m already a millionaire. I don’t need to destroy the life of someone who has not only had to battle the big boys, but also had to fight for recognition because she’s female for a pay-check. _You_ did it. You did what very few of us can. I respect you for that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“The question is, what are you going to do about this leak?”

“Right now, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Minka smiles; a feline gesture that pulls her lips up and exposes her teeth. “I thought you might say that. If I offer my help, at no cost, would you be interested?”

“Why would you voluntarily help me?”

“Because you are my way of fighting back. A way to be legitimate. Tell me that you haven’t heard that I’m a ruthless bitch who drags companies into the dirt and breaks hearts along the way and I’ll call it a day. But quite frankly, I _know_ what people say about me. Normally I don’t care, but you’re close to someone I once considered to be the love of my life. Someone I still care about.” She averts her eyes for a moment. “Chris is a good man, an _honourable_ man. There are very few of those in business. I was young and scared and I made some bad decisions. Looking back on it now, I don’t think we were quite ready. But it’s too late now.” Her eyes meet yours again. “He’s moved on, I’ve moved on and I like to think that if we cross paths again, we’ll be friends.”

 _Poker face_ , you think to yourself as you clean your plate of the remaining eggs. _Don’t let her know or even think that you’re messing around with him. Too much potential ammunition_. “I’m not going to insult your intelligence by asking how you know that Evans and I are close, but I _am_ curious.”

“Corelli’s doesn’t hire out the terrace often.”

“Business meeting.”

“Chris doesn’t take the Ghibli to a business meeting.”

“Touché.”

Minka smiles and sits back in her chair, polishing off the remainder of her friand. “Don’t worry too much about it. As far as I know, he’s only into you for your witty repartee and your body.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Take it as a compliment. You don’t have to worry about him coming after your company. He’s going to play fair and there aren’t many who will do that.”

“I know. We’ve spoken about it.”

“So the only thing left to discuss is to what ends and means you want me to go to in order to find out who is feeding important information to your rivals and why.”

“This stays above board, Minka. I have my reputation and honour – it’s what I trade on.”

“Okay, but you might want to dial things back with the CFO of your rival company or at least find a workaround to distract from your relationship. Not because I want him, but because the moment it hits the newsstands, your precious honour and reputation is going to be dragged through the mud. He’ll come across as the sparkling star who tried to help salvage a dying company and you’ll be played off as a hussy who tried to sleep her way out of a merger.” Your mouth works open and closed for a moment, trying to find the words to fight back against this argument. Minka watches you carefully. When you finally close your mouth and nod silently, she smirks. “At least you have the intelligence to know I’m right.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“And that is going to work in your favour.”

“It has so far.”

“Here,” she digs around in her bag and pulls out a business card. “All my contact details. Email, phone number, address – everything you need to get in contact again.” You hand over your own card in return. She turns it over in her fingers wistfully. “I wish this were the other way around.”

“Pardon?”

She smiles sadly. “I dreamed of owning my own company. Never got around to doing it – it was easier to buy other peoples’ and take them apart. Maybe, when this is all over, I’ll drop off a resume. I could use a mentor.”

The honesty in her voice is raw enough to make your heart constrict. Yeah, okay, she’s probably more conventionally beautiful than you, but the fact that she _actually_ looks up to you is something you never saw coming. You incline your head. “If it all works out and I see that CV cross my desk, I’ll take a look at it.”

Minka chuckles. “Thanks. Anyway, as lovely as this has been, I have another pressing engagement to get to. I’ll be in touch soon with more information.” She stands and shakes your hand. “It’s been a privilege.”

“Minka, can I ask something?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you never come to me before?”

The businesswoman considers this. “I guess... I didn’t think you’d be interested in hiring someone with my reputation.”

“You didn’t think I would like to form my own opinions?”

“I’m used to the latter.”

You nod. “Fair enough. Enjoy the rest of your day.” You watch as she leaves, her pale grey skirt swishing against the tops of her calves. The waiter clears the table as you chew on your lower lip, turning over her business card in your fingers. Reassessing your position, at least you know that the sharks that _could_ be circling... aren’t. On the downside, that means you’re back to the point where you aren’t sure where you don’t know who is feeding that information.

Dropping some bills on the table with a good tip, you head back to where your car is waiting for you. Your driver opens the door just as your phone starts playing Nicki Minaj at you. Rolling your eyes, you dig it out from your bag and press it to your ear as you get in. “You only saw me two hours ago.”

“I know. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“I thought we established that it wasn’t your fault?”

“I know, but it _was_ the company I work for.”

“I just saw Minka.”

The phone goes quiet for a moment and you think that he’s hung up, until his voice starts up again in a lower timbre. “What did the little witch have to say?”

“It’s not her.”

“You can’t be sure about that.”

“She offered to let me see her schedule for the last week.”

“That’s not a good enough bit of evidence to prove she didn’t do it.”

“She’s offered to help find the asshole that did... for free.”

A surprised huff comes down the line. “Okay, now I’m convinced. She doesn’t do _anything_ for free.”

“Yeah, I get that. Chris, we’ve got to be more careful. She knew we were at Corelli’s.”

“Alright. We’ll dial it back for a week or two... but I’m telling you now, it’s going to kill me.”

You giggle at his little boy tone of voice. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Chat soon, then.”

“Yeah. Soon.”


	12. Chapter 12

Two weeks.

It's been two weeks without any kind of contact outside of the odd meeting with lawyers in attendance, yelling at each other and even _then_ you haven't been able to maintain any kind of eye contact. No phone calls, no emails, no texts or skype sessions. No dates, clandestine or no. Exactly how Minka suggested.

Two weeks of absolute _hell_.

To your credit, you haven't allowed your personal feelings to affect your work... _much_. There's been the occasional temper tantrum, but they were minor and could be played off as lack of caffeine. But it's been awful. There's been times that you've almost cracked and picked up the phone, only to find the last dregs of willpower right at the end of your rope and slamming your finger down on the home key before the blasted digit betrayed you and tapped that green connect button. Surely this is inhuman torture?

Thankfully, relief comes at sunset on the second Saturday. Jaw set grumpily, you've just plonked yourself down for yet another uneventful evening in front of the television when an exceedingly familiar ringtone trills from the arm of the couch.

_I'm a boss-ass bitch, bitch, bitch, I'm a boss-ass bitch_

It's hard to fend off the stupid grin making it's unwanted way across your face as you reach over and pick up the call. “Sir.”

“Oh _God._ ” His voice is dark and chocolatey. “It's been too long.”

You smirk to yourself and flick your eyebrow up at the television. “That it has.”

“Are you alright?”

“As much as I can be. What about you?”

“Fucking terrible. There's a whole lotta self-control going on to stop me going downstairs and climbing into the Ghibli, racing across town and showing up at your front door.”

Something bratty raises its head in the back of your brain. “Not sure I would answer it,” you reply playfully. You hear Chris snort down the phone at you.

“Bullshit.”

“It's _terrible_ manners, Sir. One should make an appointment with a lady, not just show up uninvited.”

“Yeah, sure, it'll be _real_ uninvited when I've got my tongue buried inside you and have you screaming my name.”

“Sir doesn't _like_ screaming. Sir appreciates a woman who can keep her mouth shut, unless he has changed his mind since our last encounter.” This earns you a full-bodied, rich belly laugh and it warms you from the inside. You grab the remote and flick through a couple of channels. “Well? Has Sir changed his mind?”

“Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet. I appreciate your attention to detail, though.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You're welcome.” The line goes quiet for a moment and you briefly think he's hung up on you. When he finally returns to you, your heart goes for your throat. “Have you made yourself come since I last saw you?”

 _Okay, so he wants to play. I'm game_. “Of course I have. I might be a sub, but I'm still a woman with needs, _Sir_.”

“Tell me how you did it.” His voice is demanding and you get the feeling that were you not speaking to him down the phone, he would be sitting across from you with his trousers unzipped, underwear pushed low on his hips, one hand wrapped loosely around his twitching cock and stroking languidly. It's _quite_ the mental picture, so you decide to deliver in turn.

“I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but I own a vibrator. It's small; probably the length of your thumb and possibly the same width. It's a dark purple and recharges from a USB base.”

“Sounds delicious and useful for the office.”

This causes you to flick out your tongue to wet your top lip with its tip. “I'm not telling.”

“You don't need to, I have an _excellent_ imagination. Keep going.”

You lean forward a little, resting your elbows on your knees as you half-watch an episode of a comic-adapted show. The hero isn't really your type, but his opponent... _whoo boy, I'd call him Daddy any day he asked_. “It has a range of settings, all of them quite strong. I like to start off with the regular setting – just an insistent buzz with no breaks. I press it against my clit and hold it there with one hand, while I lick the fingers of my free hand and tug at my nipples, imagining it's _your_ teeth, _your_ tongue.”

This seems to be getting the desired effect. The breathing down the phone is getting more laborious and you can hear a couple of quiet grunts on the line. This is starting to get a little one-sided, so you allow yourself to stretch from your position and feel your back crack with relief. You hum contentedly and whisper a quiet _oh yeah_ as the last of the aches from your bad posture fade. Chris' voice comes back on the line after a minute and it's a little hoarse (not that you were expecting anything different).

“Yes? And?”

“Oh no,” you chide softly, sprawling on the couch with one foot on the floor and one on the seat, hand sneaking below the waistband of your pants. “This is not how this will play out, Sir. You don't get something for nothing.”

“I _will_ punish you for your insolence. You know that.”

“I do, yes. But it's been a lonely two weeks and I need to know that Sir has been as... _lonely_ as I have.” There, you've said it. You really, _really_ want him to say yes, that it's been killing him as well and that he's resorted to Rosie Palm and her five gal-pals for some relief. Deep down, you _know_ he has. You just want to hear him say it. There's a rustling from the other end of the line and you chew on your lower lip, thinking you might have pushed your luck a bit. “Look, if you-”

“It's been killing me. Especially those meetings. I'd have to sit across from you, watch you, then go home and either try and run it out at the gym or get straight into the shower and jerk off to the idea of cumming all over your tits.” His tone is gravelly and it is doing _nothing_ for your concentration. “Or all over your ass, in your mouth, inside you – _God_ I could barely move some nights.”

“You're touching yourself now, aren't you?”

“You can hear me, I know you can. Don't ask ridiculous questions.”

“Then tell me – tell me everything. I want to know how my words affect you.”

Chris clears his through and you grip the phone like your life depends on it. “I heard your voice when you picked up. You're sleepy, a little tired but not so tired that you would turn me away. You miss me and I can hear it in your tone, though I think that stubborn independent streak tries to hide it.”

You smile, nodding to the phantom in the room. “That's pretty accurate.” Your questing hand find your clit and toys with it gently. “Go on.”

“I was hoping that you would have pleasured yourself in my absence. It would give us something to talk about. There's an old saying that the brain is the largest sexual organ the body possesses and it's quite right.”

“You wanted to build up the picture in your mind rather than experience it first-hand?”

“It's just another form of sensory deprivation, really.”

“I suppose.”

“You started talking about your toy. I had also hoped – prior to our little break – that you were in possession of at least a vibrator.” There's a smile infecting his tone. “Does it have a name?”

“Caffeine. Because it gives me a buzz before going to bed.”

There's another belly-laugh and this time you can't help but join in. “Well, that's one way of looking at it.” His voice drops as it goes back to his story. “I wish that I could have been there. I wish that I _could_ be there.”

“You know we can't. It's still too risky.”

“Then how about a little game to pass the time?”

“You know I love your games. Tell me what I need to do.”

“I want you to put me on mute and go find Caffeine. Find somewhere comfortable and ditch the pants, then come back online for further directions.”

You giggle to yourself as you hit mute and push yourself up off the couch. _Oh, this is going to be_ _fun_ _._ You know exactly where Caffeine is – it's charging in its base beside your bed. You don't bother switching the television off but you _do_ close the door behind you. Stripping off your pants, you climb onto your bed and stack your pillows behind your back to make leaning against the wall more comfortable. The charging light on the base is green, so you grab the vibrator out of the cradle and let your fingers run over the smooth, purple silicon. The line crackles back to life as you eye off your toy. “I'm listening.”

There's a hiss of breath before Chris starts. “Turn it on. I want to hear it. I want you to feel the vibration in your hand.” Obediently, you press the button the base and it hums to life. You hadn't lied to Chris – the vibration was strong, solid – you can feel the tremors passing through your skin and jangling your nerves down to the bone. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes... _Sir_.”

“Good girl. Savour the feeling, imagine that I'm holding it against your skin, teasing you with it. I want you to stroke it lightly down your arm, then across your clavicle. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” The response is breathless and you haven't even started yet. You follow his directions and stroke the tip of the vibe down your left arm, letting the vibrations raise goose-flesh in its wake. It passes over your pulse-point at your wrist, causing a stronger shiver in you. Caffeine moves to the right side of your clavicle and you feel the buzz against the bone as you trace it across. When the tip falls in that small dip at the base of your throat, you pause to gasp in a little breath. Chris hums his approval. “You are doing so very well. Before we go any further, we should review our safe-words. Would you kindly refresh my memory?”

“Red to slow down. White to stop, Sir.”

“Such a good girl. You must not be afraid to safe-word on me. They are for your own protection, safety and pleasure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are doing this because you want to?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then everything that comes next is by your own consent. Take the tip of the vibe and suck on it for me. _Don't_ turn it off.” Caffeine finds its way to your mouth and pushes shakily between your lips, thundering against your teeth. It takes a moment for you to seal your mouth, pulling your teeth out of the way but managing to wrap your tongue around it. You have toy cleaner, of course – the almost imperceptible scent filling the peripheral of your sense of smell. It's difficult to speak with an active vibe in your mouth, so when Chris asks if you have done what he has asked, you mumble against the toy.

“Excellent. Now, I want you to suck on it – get it nice and wet for me. When you have, I want you to take it out and rub it against your bare nipples for me. Do what you did before – imagine my lips, my teeth and my tongue.”

 _Holy shit._ The saliva in your mouth builds as you suck against the buzzing, still keeping your teeth out of the way. Once you're satisfied with the result, you take the toy out and you press the flank of it against a nipple, which instantly hardens. You resort to a slow thrusting movement of it against your breast, eyes closed and lips parted as your mind wanders to the idea of having Chris' cock do the same. “Oh _God..._ ”

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

“Your cock... covered with spit. Tit-fucking me.”

“My good little girl, mmnf, you're doing so well. So good. We'll be together soon enough.” There's a slick sound from the other end of the phone. “You hear that? The head of my dick is covered with pre-cum. This is what you do to me, little girl. This is why I can't get enough of you.”

His growls are enough to send even a saint's libido into overload. You whimper, rolling the vibe between your breasts. “Please...”

“Patience. Have you done both tits?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent. Move the vibe slowly down the centre-line of your stomach – slowly, now – and then I want you to draw five, slow, figure-eights on each inner thigh.

After the first four, you're biting back screams. This is fucking _torture_ but you know it would have been worse had he been there to do it himself. When you finish his request, you're a quivering mess. A sneaky, curious hand dips below to check how wet you really are. Your fingers slide in the slipperiness and you can't help but moan. “Chri- _Sir_ , please may I...”

“Take the vibe and press it against your clit. Bring yourself to the edge but you do _not_ have permission to come, do you understand?”

 _WHAT!?_ “Please, Sir! I've been a good girl, Sir!”

“Yes, you have. I promise you this will make it feel even better.”

Tears prickling your eyes, you move the vibe to your clit. After the careful attention the rest of your body has received, you're almost instantly on the brink. It's... it's... “Chris, I...!”

“You take that away right now! You do NOT have permission!”

There's a feeling you get when you're standing somewhere high and you almost lose your footing over the edge. That is _precisely_ the feeling you get when you yank the toy away and see-saw back off the edge. He has you do that twice more, the time between the press of the toy and the see-saw feeling reducing each time until you're practically sobbing down the phone at him and finally, _finally_ he gives you that much-needed permission to topple over the edge with a gasping, sobbing moan that echoes his own as you realise he has reached his release with you.

You rest, jelly-limbed, against the pillow stack behind you and switch Caffeine off, before proceeding to wipe the sweat-laden hair from your face. “Well, that was intense.”

“Worth every minute?”

“Oh fuck yeah. Completely and utterly.”

“Good. We'll have to try it face to face and see if we can't push your threshold a bit. It's not bad for a beginner. Did you feel the need to safe-word at all?”

“No. There was a moment or two when I considered it, but I realised I was more worried about having someone else be responsible for my own pleasure and who wasn't present than I was about anything else. It was an eye-opener.”

“That's good to know. I was very impressed with your descriptive skills. Have you done anything like that before?”

“I've talked a little dirty, sure.”

There's a bit of a pregnant pause, before Chris goes back to being, well, _Chris_. “How's the investigation going?”

You huff out a sigh. “Slow. Whoever it is, they're managing to cover their tracks very well. Any more leaks on your side?”

“If my boss has them, he's not letting on.”

“Smart man. If I were him, I wouldn't, either.”

“We _will_ get to the bottom of this. Has Minka been in touch?”

You open your mouth to tell him that she had called earlier that day in order to set up a lunch meeting for Monday, but for some reason, you held back. Regardless of what your personal relationship with Chris was and what his former relationship with Minka might have been, this was really no concern of his. “No, not yet, but I'm sure she will.”

“Hmmm.” The sound was curious; not disbelieving, but not one hundred percent sold on the idea either. “I should get in touch with her. Maybe even call some of my old contacts, get my ear back to the ground.”

“Chris, as much as I appreciate the help, I have to respectfully ask you to back the hell off. This is my business, not yours. Remember that.”

“Alright, _alright_. I'm only trying to help.”

“I know you are, baby.”

“But what's yours will be mine soon, you know that, right?”

“Unless you marry me, no it's not.”

Chris' laugh rings down the line, bright and mirthful. “You never know. Could be the greatest merger I ever pull off.”

“I'm not marrying you, Evans. You'd only be marrying me for my company.”

“True, but you'd be marrying me for my body.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“Love you, too.” It's a moment – and possibly a moment too long for the phone conversation – that you realise that maybe, just _maybe_ , you actually meant that.

Luckily for you, Chris doesn't seem to notice and fires back in his best Han Solo voice. “I know.”

“You're so full of yourself.”

“You wouldn't have me any other way.”

There's more good-natured bickering before you hang up on each other, promising that another date will happen next week. You stare at the silent gadget in your hand as you climb out of bed to switch the TV off. As the apartment goes dark and you pad back to bed, your mind turns over the problem at hand.

Who could the mole be?

 


End file.
